Misconceptions
by Dreams2Paper11
Summary: AU. You always get the Twin-Who-Lived stories where Voldemort enters the story almost immediately and sweeps Harry away, and Harry subsequently becomes the feared dark heir of Voldemort. This one's a little different. A fresh, cliche-avoiding angle on a worn concept. Mentor!Voldemort, Smart!Gray!Harry. Pairings undecided. NO SLASH.
1. Chapter 1

Harry drew back his hand, a smooth, rounded pebble held lightly in between his fingertips. He tilted his head, his unique green eyes wandering around his surroundings before they focused on a squat boulder, slick with moss, half-buried in the soft ground of the far riverbank. Harry adjusted his aim, tightened his muscles, and sent the projectile spinning with an expert flick of his wrist. The stone, blurred by its speed, cleaved the air and suddenly dipped midway over the river, skipping once before bouncing back up. It sailed over the tall drooping grass and smacked into the large boulder with a satisfying _clack. _

Harry let his posture loosen and sighed, sticking his slender hands in his pockets as he restlessly ambled over to his perch. The "perch" was a thick, flat piece of dark gray slate that extended right over the river, overhanging the water to the point where if he fell in, he'd be forced to stand on his tiptoes. (Although that wasn't really saying much—Harry was short for his age.)

He sat down with a gusty sigh and pulled a small napkin-wrapped bundle out of his pants pocket. His nimble fingers gently unwrapped the package with the care of a mother holding her newborn. The strips of soft cloth fell away to reveal the end piece of a fresh baguette. Harry gnawed it hungrily, his jaws working tirelessly at the hard crust that shelled the soft, tender bread inside.

His twin brother, Michael, loved foreign food—especially French cuisine. However, he hated the "end pieces" of this particular type of bread, which was the only reason Harry had been able to snag it on his way through the kitchens.

No butter, no jam or any type of topping—just bread.

Harry couldn't have been more thankful.

As was his custom, he took the time to eat at a decent pace, savoring each burst of flavor on his tongue. He'd read somewhere that if you ate slowly, you filled up faster. And, well, his parents were always so busy catering to Michael, it was sometimes hard for him to get some attention, which meant they often forgot to call him to dinner.

_But that's okay, _Harry thought with a slight prickle of righteous bitterness. _After all, Michael is the Boy-With-Too-Many-Hyphens. He needs all the food he can get._

He stopped himself before his thoughts turned to a darker path and carefully brushed the last crumbs off the napkin. He folded it twice, corner-to-corner, and slipped it back in his pocket.

The sun was beginning to set, and the brilliant orange blazed through the thin trees, silhouetting the edges of the trunks with a near-white glow. It was picturesque, beautiful, and serene. Harry didn't want to leave, but the old leather-banded watch on his thin wrist told him it was time to go.

Out of habit, Harry brushed the pad of his thumb across the cold glass face while he stood and walked. The watch had been a present to him from Sirius (his seventh birthday present) and Harry loved it dearly. It was the only thing he had that Michael didn't.

The glass was charmed to be unbreakable and scratch-resistant. The hands of the watch pointed to elegant silver roman numerals, but if Harry tapped watch's surface three times, the inscribed numbers bled together and formed a mirror-like surface. Then all Harry had to say was _Canalis Loqui_, and a name after that, and the person could be called anywhere, at anytime, in any place, as long as there was a reflective surface near wherever the other person was.

Sirius often told him to use it to talk to him, and he did, late at night, when his parents and brother couldn't hear their conversations.

Harry walked briskly through the forest, his feet following a path he knew all too well. He was going to be late, he guessed by looking at the quickly dying sun, but that was okay. They wouldn't notice.

He was right.

When he reached the semi-trees and caught sight of the fancy, sprawling Potter mansion, he sped up, a foolish hope rising in his small chest.

Maybe they hadn't forgotten.

Maybe his mum and dad were waiting for him with open arms, beautiful smiles of gentle love lighting up their faces.

Maybe they even brought him a present, like they did all the time for Michael.

He reached the front door and rested his hand on the golden knob. The handle scanned his magic signature before twisting with a click and swinging inwards to admit entrance. A bell tinkled merrily as an alert, but no one came rushing down the entrance hall. Harry lingered in the threshold, waiting for another second, before stifling a sad sigh and kicking his shoes off, placing them neatly side-by-side in the shoe closet.

_And maybe Muggles can use magic, _he snorted sarcastically to himself in his head as he headed deeper into the house, silent as a flitting shadow.

He passed by the living room entry and paused, peeping around the doorway. As he suspected, his family was gathered there, lounging on the sofas, all snuggled together. His father had his wand out, its tip tracing intricate patterns through the air. The mahogany bookshelf promptly transformed into a beautifully sleek brown horse, tossing its black mane and stamping its hoof proudly. Michael squealed with joy from his spot on Lily's lap, quivering in excitement. James roared with laughter, his glasses slipping down his nose, and Lily chided him gently, a suppressed smile lingering around the corners of her full lips.

"James, not in the house! Think of the example you're setting for young Michael."

"You're right," James said, as he promptly flicked his wand and morphed the horse back into a bookcase. "I'm not doing nearly enough of a good job, am I? I mean, horses are impressive, but nothing extraordinary, right Michael?"

"Right, right!" Michael chorused in agreement, his dark brown eyes focusing on the bookshelf once again. His slightly chubby fingers twisted excitedly into knots in his small lap. "More!"

James obliged, and Harry moved away from the doorframe, a stone settling in his stomach.

_Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Michael needs their love more than I._

He ran up the polished wooden staircase, his fingers brushing along the gleaming banister, absolutely determined to clear his mind. He reached his room in record time and slammed the door behind him, unable to stop the thought that formed in his head, wondering if his family had heard the loud noise and might come to investigate.

He knew they wouldn't, but still…

He eased a book off the shelf, flipped open its cover, and settled himself on his bed, flicking it open to the spot he had last stopped reading at. It was a fantasy tale, one about dragons and knights and powerful wizards, and Harry loved it. He liked books because they were a form of escape for him. If the book was written well enough, he could get sucked into the story, playing it out in his head, until his very dreams that night reflected his creative imagination. He forgot his life when he was reading. He forgot his troubles, and he forgot his neglect, and he forgot the loneliness.

Because that's what he was.

Lonely.

Maybe that's why he always liked the fairy tale endings. They were… well… _happy. _And sometimes, just on occasion, Harry could read his stories and feel happy too.

He was not a bookworm, by any means, but he was incredibly clever for a child his age. He never complained, always did his best, and usually, his best was more than above average. No, he did not read thick textbooks for fun (he was only _eight_, and he'd still much rather prefer to be outside playing than inside studying, after all) but he was stunningly quick to pick up nearly any new skill or lesson. He excelled in mathematics, was an above-average reader, and, thanks to the influence of his Muggleborn mum, knew the basics of science.

It's not like anyone else noticed this about him, but that was okay. No, really, it was fine. It's not like he'd been _too_ hurt the day he completed a hard test (his mum homeschooled he and his twin) and gotten an O (outstanding), and Michael had gotten an A (acceptable), but they still gushed over the brown-haired boy more than Harry. They'd even taken Michael to get an ice cream, and Harry had to stay behind because James had forgotten to get more floo powder so they barely had enough for the three of them. (James had promised to pick him up something. He forgot, but Harry kept quiet. After all, Michael was the Boy-Who-Lived. He needed the ice cream more than him.)

So, yeah, he was fine with it. Perfectly fine with it.

_** ~Misconceptions~**_

Harry knew something was up the day his mum and dad swept into the living room, their faces pale and drawn, like shuttered windows attempted to keep out a bitter chill. He and Michael were in the playing room, with Sirius and Remus babysitting them. Remus was, at Michael's stubborn insistence, giving a tiny little mini-lesson on basic charms. Harry had been playing with Sirius quietly in the corner, but listened with no small amount of reverence to every word that left the werewolf's lips. Magic fascinated him, and he would admit that it was no small fear of his that he would turn out to be a squib. Michael had performed accidental magic at the tender age of four, when he'd been in the middle of a nasty temper tantrum. He'd shattered all of their mum's fine china, but that was okay, because Michael _had done magic, _and he was oh so amazing, and the Daily Prophet had had a field day with the news.

Harry? He'd never done a single thing with magic, no matter how much he tried. It hurt like a festering wound in his heart every time someone breached the subject, but James and Lily were always quick to switch the attention back to Michael.

But on that late summer evening, his inability at magic was pushed to the back of his mind as his parents shooed them out of the living room to talk to Sirius and Remus. Harry and Michael had a quick scuffle at the keyhole—Harry would have won, even though he was the younger, considering that his wiry limbs possessed an almost unnatural strength, but Michael threatened to tell on him and Harry didn't want that—so he was forced to listen by the crack under the door.

"Raids are popping up again," Lily was murmuring to their old friends, her voice so hushed Harry had to strain to hear. "Dumbledore suspects that Voldemort's planning something. To find Michael."

Harry shuddered at the dreaded name, temporarily pulling back, before huddling closer to the cold wooden floor once again.

"But does he know where Potter Mansion is?" Sirius questioned, genuinely confused. "Isn't it unplottable? And Merlin knows we'd never tell anyone its location."

"I know." James's voice was grave, a rare occurrence. This must be serious. "But Peter disappeared seven years ago," his voice tightened temporarily in old grief, "and Dumbledore thinks they might have captured him and tortured the information out of him."

Harry vaguely remembered the man. He remembered small, beady eyes, wispy hair, and a pudgy, diminutive body.

Sirius swore heavily, and Lily reprimanded him sharply. Sirius apologized and the conversation moved on again.

"What makes Dumbledore think he's after Michael? Now, after so much time?" Remus, ever the voice of reason, questioned. Harry glanced upwards at his brother, and noticed his normally healthily flushed face was bloodless with a curious mix of terror and excitement.

Lily sighed, taking control of the conversation. "He's not completely sure, not really," she admitted. "But he's Dumbledore, and I trust his judgment. We're planning to switch safe houses in a year."

Remus gave a heavy sigh. "I admit, I'm very worried for Michael." He turned reflective, musing. "Who knew that a baby, bless his heart, could disarm and de-power the most famed dark wizard to ever prowl this Earth for five _years_?" His voice took on a prideful tone. "Little Michael, managing to strip _Voldemort_ of power for such a long time."

Harry got the feeling his parents were beaming.

"We know," they said. "He's going to be an incredible wizard when he grows up. Do you remember when the little tyke managed to break all the china with a single cry?"

Harry didn't really think this was extraordinary. Really, didn't normal wizarding children do that sort of thing all the time when they got too angry or emotional? And weren't children supposed to be reprimanded when they threw a hissy fit and destroyed valuable things? He swallowed bitterly. But then again, he hadn't managed to do anything close to that… ever…

As if sensing his thoughts, Michael momentarily looked at Harry, a smug expression on his face. Harry scowled in response.

"What about Harry?" Sirius asked after a small lull in the conversation. "Any magic yet?"

The stone in Harry's stomach suddenly weighed a lot heavier.

"Hm? Harry? Oh, oh, of course not, not a peep of magic out of him."

_Of course not? What does she mean, 'Of course not'?_

The bitterness had formed a tangible knife that was slicing at his eyes, making them sting and blur for some reason.

James let out a sharp exhale. "Honestly, if the nurses hadn't checked his magical core at birth, I would have thought Harry was a squib…"

The blur in his eyes was getting worse as his own parents vocalized his deepest, darkest fears. He'd never felt so utterly embarrassed before in his young life.

"Nonsense," Sirius snapped irately. "James, you're being preposterous. The boy is going to be a great wizard one day, I can tell just by looking at him." Hope fluttered in his chest, spreading its white downy wings, and Harry had never loved anyone more than his godfather at the time.

"Maybe…" Lily answered, but the doubt in her voice was so corporeal that Harry suddenly felt sick to his stomach. The hope flickered and faded. He silently got up and left, creeping up the stairs to his room, leaving Michael alone by the door.

_I will be. I swear I'll be a great wizard one day. I'll show everyone._

_**~Misconceptions~**_

Harry was now almost nine years old. His birthday was only two months away.

If anyone with an ounce of brains were to look at him closely, they would see the dark bags that had settled under the boy's stunning emerald eyes. (But no one ever really looked closely, so no one ever noticed.)

Harry, for some odd reason, had been having nightmares.

Well… he wasn't exactly sure they were nightmares.

But he would fall asleep and dream normal dreams, until suddenly, everything was dark and cold and realistic, and there was this overwhelming presence encompassing his young mind. It never spoke, not a word, but Harry had a sneaking feeling that… that it was looking for him, and somehow using himself to do it.

That was ridiculous, though. Honestly, who would ever want to find him? So he kept quiet, like usual, and carried on with his life.

The thing is, though, that he would wake up from these dreams with massive headaches that throbbed right behind his old lightning bolt scar—the one he had received from the backlash of his brother's magic that had defeated Voldemort (temporarily, anyway.)

Once, when the strange presence had been near overwhelming, and his mind, helpless in the claws of unnatural sleep, had begun to register real _hurt, _he woke up with blood seeping from his scar.

Convinced that he had jerked in the throes of the nightmare and sliced his forehead open on the sharp edge of the bed, he simply slipped out from his covers and cleaned the crimson liquid from his face, pressing a fistful of toilet paper to the throbbing injury until it had stopped bleeding. (He wouldn't go bother his mum and dad for something so trivial as this. He refused to be like Michael who fled, blubbering, to his parents every time he sustained the smallest injury.)

The day following this particular event passed slowly until evening.

After dinner, a large crowd of guests had flooed to the house—The Order of the Phoenix, Harry realized in shocked awe—for an annual get-together.

And then—then Dumbledore himself emerged gracefully from the large fireplace, the roaring emerald flames swirling dramatically around his tall frame. He certainly made an impressive entry. Harry's eyes widened in awe. Michael immediately ran to the old man, his face bubbling with happiness.

"Dumbledore!" He hollered with glee, and Lily lovingly reminded him, "That's _Professor_ Dumbledore, dear." Harry, forgoing his usual quiet demeanor, rushed forward beside his brother, now, for once, unable to think in the presence of such a wonder.

You see, he'd been doing an awful lot of thinking about the promise he'd made—to be great one day. He knew he would need a teacher. He knew that if he wanted to become someone _great_, he would need a _great_ teacher.

Immediately, he thought of Dumbledore.

It was a foolish daydream, he knew that somehow. As if the great Dumbledore would actually deign to teach _him_.

Yet Harry was a child, and children tend to dream an awful lot.

Dumbledore stooped over, his wrinkly face, wizened by age and creased by laugh lines, stretching into a pleased smile. Harry opened his mouth, wondering if he should burst the question out and get it over with, but then—

"Michael, my boy, look how tall you're getting!" Michael beamed at him in response and took the customary proffered lemon drop produced from one of the old man's pockets on his garish robes. They started to converse, and Dumbledore began to turn away. He paused at the last second and swiveled back around, as if just remembering something.

"Hello Harry," he said in a not unkindly but not really buddy-buddy tone that he'd used with Michael, "lemon drop?"

Harry wordlessly took the wrapped sweet and watched as the man, seeming satisfied as to have filled his quota of interaction with him in order to be polite, rested a gnarled hand on Michael's small shoulder and guided him away into the throng of people.

"I have good news, m'boy," He was saying to the eager boy tagging along at his heels, but then he disappeared into the crowd and Harry was standing alone, the yellow candy clutched tightly in his small hand. His face carefully blank, he melted effortlessly into the mob, not even bothered by the fact that everyone hurried around him to greet his brother, and that the ones that spared him a glance were usually slightly annoyed that he'd dared to obstruct their path.

_It's okay. I'll ask him later. Everything will be fine._

So that's what he did.

He waited patiently, ever so patiently, until the get-together party had dwindled slightly in intensity, and most people were exchanging quiet conversation, nursing their drinks by the roaring fire. Professor Dumbledore was speaking quietly with his parents, occasionally using his hands to gesture. Harry approached timidly, watching as his mother's face suddenly shone with joy at something Dumbledore had said, and she whirled to race from the room, calling happily for Michael. Harry stumbled out of her way as she flashed past, her red curtain of lustrous hair shining in the firelight. He paused to collect himself, and then continued on his way.

Dumbledore didn't notice him until he tugged the man's sleeve lightly.

He looked down, his bushy white eyebrows arched in surprise. James glanced at him inquisitively.

"Mr. Dumbledore, sir," he began, but Dumbledore chuckled and waved a hand. "Just Dumbledore will do. 'Mr. Dumbledore Sir' sounds like quite the mouthful and makes me feel older than I already am."

Harry hoped the embarrassed flush on his face wasn't too visible in the half-light created by the flickering flames.

"I—yes, M—Mr. Dumbledore. I had a question…" he was shaking slightly in fear now; fear of being rejected. His right hand moved to his left wrist, tracing the trusty watch's glass face. He breathed in slowly, gathering his frayed nerves, too absorbed to notice that conversation in the room had stilled as everyone noticed the young boy talking to the esteemed wizard.

"You see, I—I wanted—will you—" He couldn't control the awful stutter.

"Spit it out, Harry," his father said, a tad impatiently. Dumbledore looked at him encouragingly, his eyes twinkling.

Harry squeezed his eyelids shut, clenched his little fists, and burst out (perhaps a bit louder than he meant to) "WILL YOU GIVE ME LESSONS?"

Shocked, utter, silence.

Somewhere in the room, someone dropped a glass. It shattered loudly. Nobody seemed to care.

His heart was going to beat right out of his chest, he just knew it.

"Oh—oh Harry, I didn't realize…"

Harry peeked out from under his eyelashes at the man's faintly distressed expression. James was staring at him in open horror. Was it really so horrible that he wanted to learn?

"I really want to learn magic, because I know I'm a disappointment to my parents," (he noticed James flinch at this. He also noticed the lack of the man's objection. The festering wound in his heart yawned a bit wider, fresh blood bubbling up.) "and I know if I could—if I could just get someone to teach me, maybe I wouldn't—wouldn't be a—" He choked, unable to force the horrible word out again. It had been excruciating to say it the first time. He knew he was rambling, and that might throw the old man off, so he ended in a strangled, "_Please?"_

Dumbledore knelt, a tender, vaguely regretful expression making the lines on his face seem deeper. "Oh Harry," he began gently, consolingly.

_Comforting. People comfort in the face of sadness or disappointment,_ Harry's rational mind analyzed.

"I'm sure you're a wonderful, wonderful boy, but…"

_But=contradiction, usually used in negative context._

"I'm afraid I can't."

His heart skipped a beat in his chest. The resounding silence hurt his ears. He felt hot and dizzy.

"Oh," he managed. His eyesight was blurring rapidly, and he had just noticed how everyone was focused intently on him—more so than ever, and Harry, unused to their stares, felt naked under their inspection. His face crumpled as he fought a losing battle to keep his composure.

He was convinced he was going to break down in tears right then and there, which would be humiliating, when the door flew open with a bang and Michael bounded in, screaming in happiness. He skidded to a stop in front of Dumbledore, breathing heavily.

"You're really doing it—my mum told me—you're going to teach me!?" He almost seemed incredulous in his euphoria. Dumbledore winced as Harry flinched like he'd been physically struck across the face.

"Michael, please—"

Michael let out a whoop and jumped into the air, laughing. "This is awesome!"

And just like that, the crowd surged forward, swarming to congratulate the young boy, the spell broken.

Dumbledore ignored the mob pressing around him, his light blue eyes searching frantically through the crowd, and just managed to see the shaking shoulders of one Harry Potter disappear silently through the exit door.

**~Misconceptions~**

**And that's the end of the first chapter! You see, one cliché I've noticed about these WBWL stories is that 1. Voldemort usually just magically (haha I am punny) appears and sweeps Harry away like that. 2. Harry is usually physically abused, and I just don't believe that would happen. Lily and James, extremely neglectful? Yes. Abusive? No. 3. Dumbledore is some extreme Jerkface. Lastly—every story I've read ALWAYS starts with the Voldemort scene where he tries to kill the twins, and fails. I thought I'd start it out differently.**

**Also: Canalis Loqui= Latin for "Channel Speak." Whenever I need to make up a spell or something, I will use Latin and maybe tweak the words slightly.**

**Questions? Feel free to ask them. Reviews=love=updates.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow, you guys! I didn't expect such a response! 2 communities, 26 favs, and 51 follows? You guys are so awesome! :D**

**Review responses: SKIP IF YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT ANSWERED QUESTIONS.**

**Verbgrace: Thank you so much! :)**

**Stardust of Orion: It's actually kind of funny, I've gotten a couple of reviews stating how they don't normally read twin-who-lived stories, but they are actually impressed with mine. (Eeek! :D) And nice insight about Voldemort... it was correct. ;)**

**smilequigley96: I feel sorry for Harry when I write it too, trust me. :( Thank you for reviewing.**

**NIkly: Thank you! I always try to do a good beginner chapter! :)**

**Guest: Thank you. I'll try to update regularly, but no promises... -_-**

**theonethatwrites: **_Q: Wh__o is the real boy who lived? What is the relationship between Harry and Michael? Is Harry a squib?_

**1. Yes, Harry is the real boy who lived. I'll probably go into more detail on that later. 2. I sort of answer that in this chapter, but like I said, I'll delve more that as the story goes on. 3. No, he isn't, but his parents don't know (and neither does anyone else) for reasons that I'll, once again, get into later. **

**coldblue: I seriously think I love you. Have you honestly read every single one of my stories? And I don't mind the review length, the longer it is, the happier it makes me. You had a few suggestions and questions I wanted to reply to, so...**

_Q: How will you have Voldemort teach Harry? What will he teach first? Will Harry be Dark or Gray? When will he do his first bit of accidental magic? Will Harry have the twin wand of Voldemort or a different one? Will Harry have a unique wand combination? Will he have extra powers? What pairing will Harry have? What house will he be sorted into? _

**1 and 2. You'll see in a couple of chapters or so, depending on what I pack into each one. 3. I'm inclined to peg Harry as a Gray wizard for just the reasons you so stated in your review: it's much more versatile in magic. 3. You'll see in a couple of chapters. ;) 4. I was planning on giving Harry the same wand as in cannon. One of my biggest Harry Potter pet peeves is when the author gives Harry some foreign, completely-made up wand combination. No. Ollivanders sells THREE cores, with a varety of NORMAL wood. (Did that come off harsh? Sorry, I didn't mean it to sound so mean.) 5. I don't think I'll be giving Harry extra powers, because then this just turns into a Super!Harry and I want him to struggle through the conflicts. 7. (Yes, I skipped 6, I'll address that right after.) You must be sick of hearing this by now, but you'll have to wait and see. ;)**

**PAIRING INFORMATION: I'm open to Daphne Greengrass and Hermione Granger. I DO NOT WRITE SLASH. OR HET. OR WHATEVER-ELSE-THAT IS NOT BOYXGIRL. So if anyone wants this to be slash, I'm sorry, but its not happening. I hope you can understand and keep reading. **

**Magic Dobby: You're the second person who told me they didn't usually read these stories, but actually liked mine. :) Yay. I'm doing it right, then! I'm going to try not to turn Harry into a Mary-Sue, because that gets kind of annoying.**

**CrowX: I was trying to make it believable, so that's good that you think it is. :)**

**Guest: Aw, thank you! AND THANK GOD SOMEONE ELSE IS NOT A DUMBLEDORE-BASHER! For heaven's sake, yes, he was a manipulator. Yes, he often did things for the greater good. But he's not a robot, and I hate it when people bash him extensively. **

**Ansa88: I made you cry? Good! That means that I'm writing well enough that I'm stirring emotions in the reader! (Or at least, I hope so.) Remus will be brought more into the story, don't worry. And trust me, most WBWL fics make Harry suffer through intense physical abuse. I think just plain old neglect is a lot more believable than abuse.**

**Murder the Gaa: Thank you for reading! Yeah, I'm 90% sure this will be a Grey!Harry fic. And for pairings, I don't write slash or het. I don't like it, and it's not my style, so I'm sorry if that dissappoints you and keeps you from reading on. **

**xxxkris44: Thank you for the encouragement. :)**

**Misconceptions**

**Chapter 2**

**By: Dreams2Paper11**

Harry shut the living room door softly behind him, his body shaking so badly that he almost closed it on his fingers. Immediately, the party sounds and cheers (_cheers for his brother, who didn't deserve them; he'd been handed anything and everything he could ever want without ever having to work for it like Harry had to)_ muted, seeming worlds away rather than just behind a closed door.

_Heh. Closed door. Often used to signify the loss of opportunity in someone's life…_

Harry padded down the hallway, walking in his customary light, evenly paced gait. His whole body trembled so much that his knees almost collapsed underneath him. His eyelids were quickly filling with tears, and he blinked rapidly in a futile attempt to hold them at bay. They misted his vision, and he stubbed his toe several times due to the poor eyesight that resulted.

_Oh, oh, of course not, not a peep of magic out of him…_

_I would have thought Harry was a squib…_

Bile rose in his throat. He clasped his hands over his mouth in distress. He stumbled and hit his shoulder on the doorway as he burst into the bathroom and raced over to the toilet. His pitifully small body heaved and convulsed as his stomach contents burned their way up through his throat, splattering into the toilet bowl. His pale fingers gripped the porcelain rims tightly, white-knuckled.

_I'm sure you're a wonderful, wonderful boy, but…_

_I'm afraid I can't._

He retched loudly and vomited again, shivering from the cold floor pressing against his bare knees. Soft, suppressed sobs quivered in his chest, but he refused to let them escape, viciously grabbing them and locking them down with the heaviest chains he could imagine.

His hands formed fists and he pounded the side of the toilet savagely, moaning in rage. He was so hurt, so tired, so bitter.

It didn't used to be like this.

He thought he could (faintly, so faintly) remember a time when his parents treated them equally. A time when _they_ had time for him. A time when he could laugh and play with them. A time when he and his twin brother had never been closer.

He and Michael _had_ been close, once. They used to do everything together. They ate the same foods at the same times, laughed at the same things, liked the same kinds of toys, even slept in the same crib because they got anxious without the other near. They were as good friends as two-year olds could be.

Then Voldemort attacked, and Michael was christened as the Boy-Who-Lived.

And that was the day that Harry was cast in Michael's formidable shadow.

It hadn't been immediate, of course. Harry knew that his mum and dad had tried to continue loving them equally, but they now bore the weight of properly raising the most influential child in the whole wizarding world, and Michael was so special and talented and lovable, and Harry was so… ordinary. But they tried, and they succeeded for a year.

Until they began to slip.

James was first. He'd always been an excitable, single-minded person who loved attention. Michael became so important, and as his reputation grew, so did James's love for him. He started forgetting when to take Harry to scheduled play dates, or, as Michael and Harry grew older and became more differentiated, Harry's favorite food, or favorite color, or favorite animal. He started to forget, in his haste to mold Michael into the perfect little mini James, how Harry had always been a startling natural in Quidditch, and Michael had been clumsy on their toy brooms at best.

It wasn't overnight, of course. It was gradually growing, though, like vines creeping over the stonework of an old, dilapidated building, and the "forgetfulness" began to worsen. Harry almost didn't even notice it until he was four and a half and his father forgot to pick him up from a play date with a friend (the friend was long gone now, having ditched him in favor of joining the "BWL Fanclub".) Harry had been forced to wait for _four hours _until James remembered him.

Lily was harder to topple, but she still fell.

She loved her children dearly, much more than how much she valued herself. They were her little darlings, her precious gems—but the thing is, a gem that is not continuously polished and buffed and shaped grows dirty, accumulating layers of dust that smudge the flawless surface underneath.

A mother is pushed into frantic mode when one of her offspring is threatened, and Lily was no different. For weeks after the attack, she refused to let Michael out of her sight. She checked on Harry too, but Michael had assumed top priority in her instinct-based mind, and by the time she snapped out of the daze induced from fear for her boy's life and the sudden publicity, she had already created the fractures in her and Harry's relationship. From then on, it was easy for the cruel fingers of Fame to slowly pry apart the cracks, transforming them from tiny fracture lines to wide, gaping caverns.

Harry reflected on all of this as he knelt by the toilet, laying his heavy head on the deliciously cool toilet lid, his sudden bout of nausea slightly abated. He stared silently with dull green eyes at the closed bathroom door, painfully aware that no one would be coming to check on him any time soon.

Suddenly, he felt disgusted. He didn't want to be in this house one second longer than he absolutely had to. He forced himself to a standing position with a grunt, scrubbing furiously at the residue of tears left on his face. He purposefully emerged from the bathroom and paced to the front door, barely able to keep himself from running. In his haste to leave, his fingers slipped off the solid gold knob and he growled, shouldering the door open (which only served to make his already sore shoulder ache with renewed pain, but it vented his anger slightly, and he was grateful for that) with more force than necessary. He slammed it behind him and leaped down the white stone porch steps, following the narrow path of round stones that led to a small, comfortably furnished cottage that housed the main floo connection. He forked a left when he reached the little entry house and kept running. He blazed across the neatly trimmed, rolling lawns until he came to the edge of the forest—his forest.

He slowed as he approached, looking at the dark shadows that shrouded the trees and the ominously still leaves with slight trepidation. He'd heard all about rogue werewolves, and vampires, and trolls, and how they mainly lived deep in forests. He'd stayed awake to listen to the really good scary stories that his father would tell to Michael on occasion, when his mum wasn't around to stop them.

It's just, his forest looked so different during the daytime… all light and airy and cheerful, buzzing with the sound of delightful magical creatures that played among the branches.

It was the complete flipside at night.

Harry remembered that his family bore a long line of Gryffindors, the Hogwarts house of the brave and courageous, and knew he could not back down.

Besides, a dark scary forest was more preferable than his house at the moment. At this thought, his face contorted into a childishly angry grimace, and he straightened his back and tipped his chin up proudly, walking quickly past the tree line.

If he had decided to turn back instead, perhaps all the events that happened in the next few years would never have taken place.

However, Fate has a funny habit of being awfully stubborn when she plays her games.

**~Misconceptions~**

Even in the dark, Harry knew just how to get to his favorite spot. The shadows distorted everything, trying to play tricks on him, but Harry's nightsight was good enough that he could see where he was putting his feet. He went slowly, knowing that he had time to kill, and that it wouldn't work out well if he somehow got injured due to undue haste.

His "perch" was a good distance from his home, and on a good day, it took him only fifteen minutes walking at a brisk pace to get there. Now, going slowly so as not to lose his way, Harry had been walking for at least twenty-five minutes.

Emboldened by his daring entry, and after he had gotten over his earlier fears, the night forest actually seemed sort of peaceful. It was a clear night, and the moon was waxing, not quite full yet. It was slightly cool for May, and a refreshing night breeze had picked up, stepped delicately through the treetops, rustling the leaves gently like a mother caressing her child. It weaved together a pleasant background noise.

Harry bent over to scoop up a suitable walking stick he spotted half-buried in the leaf loam. He spun it absently in his palm, using it when he stepped between two close trees to clear away spiderwebs (because no child in their right mind _liked_ walking face-first into a spiderweb) and to tap absently against the trunks, forming a staccato beat that echoed softly through the woods.

He recognized the curious oak tree with three separate trunks that conjoined a yard off the ground, forming a sort of cradle (he sometimes stored the stuff he found in that spot) as one of his landmarks. It meant the river was only twenty yards away, and sure enough, if he strained his ears, he could hear it gurgling quietly in the far darkness. He sped up, deep in thought about what had happened earlier that night (his eyes stung at merely the thought of the humiliating experience.) He pushed a branch out of his way and stepped into the clearing, ducking to avoid a piece of drooping ivy.

Ha had taken four steps closer to the riverbank when he looked up.

His breath froze in his chest, and the peaceful feeling instilled in him by the quiet forest dispelled itself as his eyes zeroed in on the slate boulder.

There was a dark figure crouched on his perch, head tilted back to look at the starry sky.

Harry's heart pounded frantically in his chest as his overactive imagination kicked into action, forming horror stories about vampires who feasted on unwanted children in the dead of night.

Harry was a smart child. So, no, he did not completely lose his wits and do something silly like drop his walking stick, or let out a terror-filled gasp, or stumble backwards. Instead, even as his heart was flopping in his ribcage like a fish out of water, he regulated his breathing and took careful, light steps backwards, back into the safety of thicker foliage.

His thought process was strangely calm and collected.

_If I can far away enough into the woods, I can get back to the house and tell someone that there's something in the woods._

He'd almost made it back into the forest, his emerald eyes, nearly glowing in the silver moonlight, riveted on the strange figure on his perch. His free hand reached backwards to grab the leafy branch that he'd pushed out of his way earlier, slowly moving to bend it out of his path.

It did not rustle. Its stem did not snap in half. The leaves did not crackle.

_So, _he'd often wonder to himself later on, _how did he know I was there?_

Suddenly, the figure gracefully rose to its full height—much, much taller than Harry, which was not reassuring in the least—and turned to face him. Harry's eyes widened in awe. He could not see much, due to the watery moonlight silhouetting the man from behind (because, judging by the broad shoulders, _it _was masculine and human) but he could make out two eyes that shimmered red in the dark. Eyes like living, fiery nightmares.

A most awful feeling of familiarity rushed through him, though he knew not why—after all, he'd never seen this person before. It was so strong in its intensity—_comforting_, almost— that he nearly took a step closer, his eyes clouding for just a sliver of a second. Then he shook his head to clear the cobwebs clinging to his brain and turned to do the sensible thing: run.

Except, when he turned, he ran face-first into the chest of the man. He stumbled backwards, just managing to regain his footing before he fell.

_What—how—?_

He twisted quickly, throwing a look towards his rock, where the person had been standing just a mere second ago. The spot was empty.

He turned his head back around when he felt something hard press into his chest—a wand.

"Leaving so soon?" The voice was a smooth, deep baritone drenched in honey. It made his skin crawl. A deep undercurrent of cold amusement gave the barest inflection to the softly uttered words. "But we haven't even exchanged names yet…"

Fear was pounding through his head, making it hard to think, so he inhaled softly and tilted his head up—_be brave, be brave_—looking right into those hellish eyes. They were human-shaped, and only the iris burned that scathing color, but the distinct pupil was oddly pinched on the top and bottom, resembling a snake's eye.

With the moon shining towards him, the silver rays hit the man's back, bending around him. He couldn't see the man completely, and that put him at an immediate disadvantage. He took a calculating step back into the moonlit clearing, edging away from the wand. The eyes angled as the person tilted his head in consideration, a knowing look glinting in the creepy pupils. Harry knew immediately that the man was aware of the strategic reasoning behind his careful move.

The man moved with incredible stealth, and it was only the quiet sound of his black cloak rasping over the leaves that signified his slow, predatory steps forward. In response, Harry took a few more steps back, his nerves firing as the man finally emerged into the moonlight.

He'd been expecting—well, he'd been expecting some sort of hideous disfigurement, or the presence of fangs poking out from under a lip, or scaly skin, or _something _straight from a horror story. Not this handsome man who looked to be in his early thirties. His cheekbones were high and elegant, giving him a kingly, aristocratic look. His complexion was perfect and his skin was a startling alabaster. It nearly beat the moon in terms of paleness. His nose was straight and not too large or small, and his lips were thin and as bloodless as the rest of his face. His eyebrows were slender and dark, overlooking those strange, intimidating eyes. His hair was obsidian, resembling the silken sable feathers on the wing of a raven. It was even darker than Harry's, styled in a carelessly windswept appearance that would have looked stupid on anyone else but made him look effortlessly charming.

The bone-white wand suddenly flicked up again, the point touching his chest lightly, held in relaxed, long fingers. It was a simple reminder that Harry was not in any position to be ignoring the person in front of him.

"What is… a child… doing out in these deep, dark woods… _alone_… at night?" The man mused aloud quietly, his wand tip tracing light circles on Harry's chest. Harry prayed that his voice would remain steady as he opened his mouth to give his reply.

"I'm not quite sure, sir, but if you let me check with my parents, I'm sure I could find out," he spoke carefully as he pretended to joke, his lips barely moving. After hearing the man's rich voice, his seemed high-pitched in comparison, like a whiny little kid. He hoped his trembling wasn't too noticeable. The wand paused, then started moving once again. Harry was suddenly reminded of sharks lazily swimming around their prey, watching them thrashing helplessly in the water with soulless black eyes.

"Your family?" The man repeated, one slender eyebrow arching. "Are they near?"

Harry forced a bright, typical-stupid-child smile on his face. "Mhmm! We were on our way back from the National Dueling Tournament—my dad placed third—and thought we'd camp out tonight in the woods!" A father that supposedly placed third in a dueling tournament. Hopefully that was intimidating. It was the best he could come up with on the spot.

His head was starting to throb. It was distracting.

A faintly amused smirk curled the corner of the man's lips. "Liar," he murmured softly. The wand pressed harder, the tip digging into his chest. "The last National Dueling Tournament was fifteen years ago."

He couldn't think. "I'm older than I look," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

_Stupid, stupid!_

A quiet, sinister chuckle slipped from the man's lips. "A valiant effort, I'll give you that, but I know a lie when I see one." The man leaned over, his lips hovering next to the shell of Harry's ear. "So I'll ask once again—why are you here, child?" The murmured words hinted at the slightest flicker of impatience, and Harry swallowed.

"I wanted to be alone, and this is the spot where I always come—" Idiot! He'd just given away potentially valuable information! The man tipped his head, a silent gesture for him to continue. "I—I didn't think anyone else knew about it."

_Get the conversation off you. _

"What about you, sir?" He asked innocently, but behind his back, his fingers were nervously twisting his watch around his wrist. He couldn't use it to call anyone—he was sure the deadly-looking man could and would disable him (or worse) within seconds. "What's your name?"

The man tutted sharply, shaking his head. "No, no," he said, a dangerously playful note coloring his words. "Let's not switch the conversation so rudely. It is proper etiquette for one to introduce himself before asking for the name of the other."

"Then why haven't you told me your name yet?" Harry challenged before he could stop himself. "I mean, you asked for mine first."

The red eyes gleamed in faint approval. Overhead, the moon slipped behind a passing cloud, and the clearing darkened.

"Sharp, very sharp… but I tire of this meaningless verbal spar," The man said lightly, beginning to circle Harry, who stood stock-still. The shark analogy popped into his head once again. "It is no fun when battling with such a young opponent…"

Unexpectedly, icy cold fingers dug into his shoulder painfully, and Harry couldn't withhold his gasp. His hands, stiff from clenching, flexed jerkily around the smooth wooden staff as a strange feeling of double vision traveled through him like a lightning bolt-_Why was a child out here alone what's his name does he know the Potters can he be used as a hostage?-_The next second, the hand jerked him around, and the uncomfortably cool fingers slipped under his chin, ruthlessly jerking his head up to face him. His headache rose in intensity noticeably, and Harry winced. They made eye contact; glittering, curious crimson sparking against glowing, fearful emerald.

"_Legilimens."_

And then his head exploded in agony.

**~Misconceptions~**

**Lol, Voldemort, you fail at interacting with children.**

**Next chapter: Voldemort's POV, Dumbledore's POV, James and Lily Potter's POV, Michael's POV**

**EXTRA QUESTIONS:** _Why are James and Lily neglecting Harry?_ **Hopefully, I sort of answered that this chapter.** _Why don't they have much confidence in Harry's ability as a wizard? _**That's next chap. **_Will Harry kill Voldemort once he learns from him? _**No, he won't. That would kind of render the point of this whole fic moot. **_Did they do anything to Harry's magic? _**I once read a WBWL story where James and Lily transferred Harry's magic to his twin. It was a good story, but unfortunately, no, that's not what happened here.**


	3. Chapter 3

**This is a monster chapter, I'm warning you. (I skipped studying for a big test tomorrow to write this for you guys, so you better review!) **

**I'm literally pulling on my shoes as I type this with one hand. I'm about to leave, and I really wanted this to get out before I left, so I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO EDIT IT. I will go back in later to fix things. I swear I'll respond to all your reviews next chapter, so—**

**GEEZ! I'M COMING DAD, _HOLD ON_!**

**Happy reading!**

**~Misconceptions~**

**Chapter 3**

**By: Dreams2Paper11**

_It felt like someone was shoving a red-hot poker through his scar. His head pounded like a jackhammer, and a horrible, high keening noise pierced his ears. His skull pulsed with agony, and it spread like a cancer to his entire body, burning him up as it traveled. _

_Yes, he was burning up, his body disintegrating to ashes as it went up in roaring, scarlet flames. Needles were piercing his decomposing skin, digging brutally into his muscles, spearing his organs and _**_they just kept going and Oh Merlin he was going to die—_**

_He wasn't sure, lost in a sea of agony, but he thought he might have keeled right over a long time ago, years ago, when the pain began, collapsing effortlessly on the soft ground. _

_Something was _**_in_**_ his head. It was slippery, so slippery and cold, but not slimy, just like the scales of a snake. There was a snake in his head, had it crawled through the gaping eyeholes of his bare skull, picked clean of any flesh by the crows?_

_In the midst of all his torture, he came to the realization that the _**_slippery cold horrible invading_**_ thing in his mind was also in pain, (maybe not to such a degree as his, or maybe it was just better at masking it) and the curse of being burdened with not only his agony—_**_and it was already beyond excruciating—_**_but also simultaneously feeling the pain of another, was too much and then…_

_Everything faded, and he was falling into merciful darkness, shadows reaching out to cradle him and steal him away from the burning light…_

**.**

**Hours Earlier**

**.**

Voldemort reclined on his throne, his chin resting on his pale palm, a faintly bored expression relaxing his facial features.

On the stretch of ground before his throne, Peter Pettigrew writhed desperately, sharp, squealing screams of torture ripped from his throat. The man's hand twitched spasmodically, thumping against the marble floor in his wild throes.

Disinterested with the scarcely coherent pleas for mercy that blasted from the pathetic figure's mouth, Voldemort lifted his listless gaze, slowly looking around the room, his sharp eyes lingering over his inner circle of Death Eaters. They were fanned out in a semi-circle around his throne, bowed respectfully on one knee, their masked faces angled to the ground. Voldemort smirked slightly, tipping his head back against the cold marble throne and closing his eyes as he basked in the submissive postures of his insubordinates.

Wormtail (as he was better known amongst the throng of followers) jerked, and his head thudded against the hard, unforgiving ground. His hoarse screams reached a new, frenzied pitch of desperation, and Voldemort's eyelids snapped open once more, focusing lazily on the short, shabby man. He idly twirled his wand between his long fingers and mentally ended the _Crucio_. Wormtail weakly rolled over, gasping for breath, a bit of frothy spit dribbling down his chin. Voldemort sneered in repulsion.

"Wormtail, you vile, pathetic creature," he intoned in a quiet voice, yet every ear in the room heard the soft, threatening sibilant undertone.

"I tell you to kill your ex-friend and his mudblood wife and join my side, and you simply steal away in the middle of the night, like the miserable, sniveling coward you are."

"I tell you to spy on Dumbledore, and you give me a half-heard prophecy, leading to my temporary… leave of absence."

Wormtail flinched noticeably, shuddering, sobbing like a punished child. "Master, please—please— "

"I tell you to spy on James and Lily Potter after I've regained my strength," Voldemort continued loudly, viciously cutting him off, "and you end up living in the cellars of their basement for months, your "safe haven.""

He began to roll his beloved wand between the pads of his fingertips. "I'm starting to wonder… why your filthy presence still defiles my ranks…"

The lovely Bellatrix stepped forward, casting her mask aside and throwing her hood back, brazenly displaying her beautiful face for all to see. "My Lord," she cooed eagerly, drawing her wand from her hip holster. "I will kill the rat for you, the traitorous, whiny, _crying_, _unimportant_ _little_—"

"Be quiet, Bella," Voldemort said coolly, his red eyes flicking to her face temporarily. "You forget your place."

Immediately, her demeanor darkened in disappointment and shame, and she bowed her head in acknowledgment of his unspoken order, stepping back into the semicircle like a scolded dog slinking off with its tail behind its legs.

Voldemort rose and leveled his wand at the crouching, shivering figure. A sinister green glow began to radiate from the tip, tiny spirals of power beginning to seep out and circulate the point like clouds rotating around a mountain peak.

"Goodbye, Wormtail…"

"Wait!" The man lurched to his feet drunkenly, his body still twitching from the sustained Crucio. Tears carved clean trails through his dirt-caked face. "Wait—I have—information…" His voice strangled itself at the end of the sentence, and he began to sob again, falling to his knees before the feared wizard.

Voldemort did not lower his wand.

"Speak then, before I render your life forfeit…"

Wormtail gripped his marred face with his yellow, untrimmed nails, moaning. "The—the Potters—they are moving safe houses in a year's time! Dumbledore—he grows uneasy, milord, due to the recent raids…"

Voldemort slowly passed his wand from one hand to the other, reflecting. "Go on," he urged quietly, and the man lying prostrate before him needed no further prompting. Or, that is, he wouldn't have, if he had more secrets to divulge. Wormtail had grown lazy and fat, living off food pilfered from the storage pantry in the Potter's basement, and thus neglected the job assigned to him by Voldemort in the beginning. He had only heard about the switch by accident, during one of his weekly kitchen raids.

"I'm waiting…"

Wormtail shuddered, brought back to life by the impatient voice. Voldemort subconsciously tightened his grip on his wand, restraining himself from narrowing his eyes. _What a group of incompetent fools I have…_

"The—the Potters, they spoil Michael, their supposed Boy-Who-Lived! They spoil him, and if they aren't careful, he will—will turn out rotten, not worthy of being called your opposition…"

"Hmm." Voldemort turned, his monstrous anger slightly abated, and lowered himself gracefully back onto his throne. "I will enjoy watching the life fade out of the black-haired brat's eyes when we meet…"

Wormtail looked confused.

"Milord? Black-haired? Michael… Michael has brown hair…"

"_Do not ever correct me, you fool! CRUCIO!"_

It was almost funny, if not for the Dark Lord's aura that screamed _"Danger!" _Wormtail's screams once again echoed throughout the chamber, but Voldemort's icy expression slowly thawed and grew thoughtful. "All of you, leave us," he ordered imperiously to his Inner Circle, his voice cutting through the din raised by Wormtail like a sharpened knife. They bowed and, one by one, filed obediently out of the room, softly closing the towering mahogany doors behind them.

Voldemort abruptly halted the _Crucio_ the moment the doors clicked shut. "What did you mean?" He hissed to the disheveled figure, his fingers clenching the ends of the armrests of his chair. He hated not knowing things. Knowledge was power, and power, he craved.

"The—Michael, he is brown-haired, Master, like his grandparents, with dark brown eyes!" Wormtail shrieked, suffering from aftereffects. Voldemort tensed, leaning forward and steepling his fingers. Outwardly, he was the very picture of calm, but inside his formidable mind, a raging tempest of thoughts swirled.

"The brat that I aimed an Avada Kedavra at all those years ago… possessed dark hair and killing-curse green eyes…" He pondered out loud, intertwining his fingers. He looked up suddenly at the quivering man, eyes gleaming.

"There are twins, this I am sure of. Tell me, Wormtail, the other's name is Harry, correct?" He suppressed a shiver of revulsion at the horrible Muggle name. Wormtail nodded silently, mouth hanging as the implications began to dawn on him.

"Harry… he possesses a scar shaped like a lightning bolt on his forehead," Wormtail whispered, his milky eyes, bright with tears, gaining a mad milk-penny shine. Voldemort could hear the small man's heartbeat begin to thrum harder in his chest.

"Does the brown-haired child also possess unique markings?"

"No, my Lord, it was only because of his aura was so drenched with yours that they decided it had been Michael."

"Then how do they justify the black-haired boy's scar?"

"The backlash of his brother's magic, Master…"

Voldemort angled his head forward, black strands of his hair falling into his unique eyes, blocking them from view. A small smile, made gruesome with dark satisfaction, tugged at his lips, and he obliged, displaying his white teeth. Wormtail flinched at the sight, cowering closer to the ground. It was not a nice, friendly smile. It was a widened smirk, somehow capable of sending multiple subtle threats without ever uttering a word.

The room fell silent, and Wormtail dared not break it. Meanwhile, Voldemort's quick, cunning mind rapidly connected the dots, his eyes widening in pleasure as he realized all the grievous mistakes Dumbledore had made in the past years.

"Leave me to my thoughts."

Wormtail quickly hobbled out of the throne room, his face sweaty and twisted with pain. The doors opened and closed for the second time in minutes as he made his exit.

Now fully alone, Voldemort stood and began to pace slowly, his eyes narrowed in thought as his mind took him back to that Halloween night, years ago, when he had infiltrated Godric's Hallow and attacked James and Lily Potter. He'd left James barely alive and Lily heavily bleeding from a serious head wound…

_He approached the revolting yellow-painted crib, resting his arms on the safety bars as he looked calculatingly at the twins. One, with short brown hair and darker eyes, began to cry as his face loomed over them. The other, the one with a full head of messy black hair…_

_was _**_sleeping_**_. _

_Sleeping! After he'd blasted the door open, dueled (shortly) with James, making the entire household shake and shudder violently… after he'd ruthlessly tossed the child's mother into the wall…_

_The boy had somehow _**_slept_**_ through the noise._

_He'd smirked, shaking his head in disbelief, leaning forward and completely ignoring the other crying child. "Hmm…" He brushed the back of his cold fingers along the toddler's cheek, his hand slipping upwards to push through the boy's dark, tangled hair. "Wake up, child, and look me in the eyes before you die…"_

_The tiny eyelids immediately fluttered open at the contact, revealing sleepy, stunningly green irises. The small mouth opened in an enormous yawn, revealing a miniature pink tongue, as the child rubbed at his beautiful eyes and tipped his head back to make eye contact with him. _

_Voldemort's smirk widened into a sickening grin. "Good boy, Harry, you follow orders so well," he purred mockingly in his seductively dark voice, patting the silken halo of black strands once before withdrawing his hand from the mop of hair. "It's almost a shame to kill you, you would have made a great follower…" _

_The brown-haired brat's cries had grown exponentially while he interacted with the black-haired twin, and out of annoyance, he flicked a silencing charm at the babe, welding its mouth shut instantly. He turned his darkly amused eyes back to the other twin, who had unsteadily stood up in his crib, eyeing him curiously as he wobbled. Voldemort pointed his wand at the toddler's forehead, watching silently as Harry giggled and tried to grab it with his small hands._

"_Goodbye, Harry Potter…" The killing curse rested, poised, on the tip of his tongue as he flicked his wand to dislodge the child's clumsy hands. The bright green glow emanated from the point, illuminating the entire nursery in green shadows, and he flourished his hand, bringing it down to aim directly at the clueless toddler's forehead. _

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

_The curse jetted towards the babe—there was no way it could miss from such a short range—but at the last second, right as it made impact, a golden, semi-translucent shield glowed underneath the boy's skin. The deadly curse hit the child's gently shining forehead, and the defense magic rippled and glowed at the contact, but then it was flying back at him and _**_how was this possible_**_—_

_Pain. Pain like he'd never felt before. He could actually feel his soul straining at its self-imposed chains, aching to escape this earthly realm, but the horcruxes he'd constructed to prevent him from dying tethered him, helping to maintain a hold onto his body. He'd stumbled away from the crib, his chest burning in indescribably agony, and his magic, sensing his distress, lashed out at the closest living thing—the brown-haired child. _

_The magic was too weak to do any harm, seeing as most of it was spent keeping his body from simply crumbling into ashes, but it surrounded the child in his malevolent aura, bathed him in it—_

_Through the excruciating pain, he thought he saw the black-haired boy crying, clutching his bleeding forehead._

A small noise rumbled deep in Voldemort's chest and his shoulders began to shake. The small movements displaced the hair hanging in front of eyes, shifting aside to reveal his scorching scarlet eyes, wide with pleasure. The rumblings turned into a deep, cruelly mocking laugh as Voldemort shook his head teasingly, rubbing his smooth chin.

"Oh my, Dumbledore, what an old fool you've been…" He held up his hand, examining his wand. "This mistake is going to cost you dearly…"

**~Voldemort~**

He apparated directly into the heart of the forest, the loud crack ringing loudly through the tree trunks. Wormtail had disclosed the Potter's location to him months ago, when he had encountered him in Albania, and he had been plotting his _visit _ever since.

An excellent ambush attack required extensive knowledge of the surrounding environment where it was to take place, and that knowledge was something that Voldemort did not have. Usually, he sent his top minions to do this part of the job, but the goal was so important, and the stakes so great, that he opted to do it himself. When he did choose to personally attend a raid or anything along the lines of them, he always took Nagini with him, for an extra defense—but this time, he'd left her behind at Malfoy Manor. After all, she was one of his horcruxes, and he could not have her getting killed if something went wrong.

He always took good care of his toys.

He tipped his head back, closing his eyes and savoring the feel of a cool wind rolling across his face. He inhaled the moist air slowly. The night sky—or rather, the parts that could be seen through the gaps in the treetops—was perfectly clear. Bright stars, glittering coldly, dotted the dark expanse like immobilized fireflies.

Something dreadfully important, something _fated, _was going to happen tonight. He could feel it, in his core. His magic was restless, constantly moving inside him, ready to be called at the slightest sign of danger. His eyelids snapped open and he set out, cautiously alert.

Wormtail had said the Potters were hosting an annual get-together tonight, which meant that everyone would be holed up in the mansion, distracted by the party. He couldn't ask for a more perfect opportunity to map out the grounds.

Still, though, one could never be too careful. He cast a strong notice-me-not and a disillusion charm on himself, stoically enduring the sensation of something cold, viscous, and slimy dripping down his body. His magic reacted eagerly, almost begging to be released, and Voldemort arced a brow in slight interest.

Yes, something important was going to happen. The only question… was what?

He pulled a piece of blank, clean parchment that he had enchanted earlier out of his inside pocket and tossed it into the air. It fluttered a few inches, and then grew still, serenely drifting along behind him. With every step he took, black ink bled into the parchment, spreading out like a stain to form a detailed bird's-eye view map of the forest.

He moved easily through the forest, undisturbed. Shadows seemed to noiselessly reach out and cling to him as he passed, the darkness spilling into any crevasse not reached by the bright moonlight. The forest was unusually quiet tonight, as if it were holding its breath in barely constrained anticipation. There were dark creatures—ancient, silent ones that liked to avoid any signs of humanity—deep within the vast woods. Voldemort could tell by the faint, lingering traces of their unique energy signature that he encountered every so often. Finding only slight wisps of their aura was strange. Usually, as the full moon approached, dark creatures tended to become more agitated and bold, emerging from their various lairs to prey on any unsuspecting fools.

But tonight, it was so quiet.

In his pocket, something vibrated. His brow twitched with annoyance, but he pulled out the buzzing object: a small, rectangular mirror, ordinary in every way—except for its strange lack of a reflection. The smooth surface glowed at his touch, heating up, before the unnatural light faded and it returned to normal. Colors dropped into the flat pane, like someone splattering paint on a silver wall. The globules of color stuck to each other, flattering out, forming shapes, until…

Wormtail's pale face appeared. His eyes were roving wildly in their sockets, nervously flicking upwards every now and then. His background was dark and musty, dappled with shadows, obviously some sort of a cellar. His back was hunched, and he had to bend his head so as not to hit the unnaturally low ceiling.

No—not a ceiling, Voldemort realized a second later, looking at the jutting wooden slats. Stairs. Wormtail was hiding under the cellar stairs.

"What is it, Wormtail?" Voldemort spat impatiently. He had sent Wormtail back to the Potter's to continue acting as an unknown spy, and given him the magicked mirror. It allowed the user to call the other holder of the mirror, and it was an extremely rare and useful object. Voldemort loathed the very idea of letting Wormtail get his grubby little hands all over it, but it was an unfortunate necessity. Wormtail was to call him should any complications arise.

Voldemort knew the night was too peaceful to last.

"My Lord," Wormtail began, trembling in fright as a fresh round of muffled laughter and cheers exploded upstairs. "There's been a—a complication." He paused, gulping. "Dumbledore is here—"

Voldemort snarled in rage, his crimson eyes glowing eerily in the darkness. His magic recoiled, hissing angrily, and lashed out. A nearby oak tree cracked right down the middle with a ringing peal similar to thunder. Its branches shuddered as both halves toppled heavily to the ground, one particularly thick limb missing Voldemort's head by mere inches.

He did not even flinch, though his handsome face remained twisted in ferocious hatred. _Of course the old bumbling fool would be here the night I need him not to be!_

Wormtail cowered in the mirror, shaking pathetically. "There was—Harry—he went to Dumbledore in the middle of the party, requesting lessons—"

Now that caught Voldemort's attention. His mouth, already a hard line, sneered in frustration. If the chosen one was trained by Dumbledore himself… he might have a larger problem on his hands than if he anticipated…

"—refused him, and the boy seemed so h-humiliated."

Voldemort snapped back to attention, genuinely surprised. _Refused him? Dumbledore… refused him? But then again, he does not know that Harry is really the prophecy child…_He restrained a gleeful laugh, outwardly composing himself. _This is too good to be true. It's like Dumbledore _**_wants _**_the brat to hate him…_

"But, my Lord, he's going to the forest."

"Dumbledore?" He gripped his wand tighter, feeling a savage pleasure rise in him at the thought of dueling Dumbledore, of finally killing his greatest foe, watching the twinkle die from those hated, knowing blue orbs…

"No, it's Harry! He fled the room after Dumbledore _publicly _denied him." Wormtail paused, a flicker of pity crossing his face when he thought of the utterly heartbroken expression that made the young child seem so much older than he really was. It had been too easy to watch the party from the smallest hollow knothole in the timber ceiling planks in his rat Animagus form, and subsequently, the whole dramatic debacle.

"And?" Voldemort drawled, uncaring.

"He—he likes to go into the forest when he gets in one of his moods. I followed him once—there's a spot where a rock extends over a river, and he likes to sit on the rock and skip stones."

"How sentimental," Voldemort said sardonically, dismissively but he expanded his magical range to sense any other human or creature with a magical core within a hundred feet, anyway. "Is that all?"

"No, my Lord." Wormtail said in a subdued tone of voice. "Dumbledore will be giving Michael lessons—that's partially the reason why Harry was so upset."

He couldn't believe this. He honestly couldn't believe this. He nearly wanted to laugh out loud at his mortal foe's cluelessness.

"My, my… Dumbledore, you have been committing an awful lot of mistakes lately…" he pondered out loud softly, his dark, blood-washed eyes glittering. Could the aged wizard finally be going senile? Losing his touch?

"If that is all, Wormtail…" A dark smile, so small it was barely noticeable, stretched his mouth. "I do believe I have a boy to meet…"

**.**

**James**

**.**

James watched as Harry slipped, unnoticed, through the door, shutting it quietly behind him. A pang of pity stabbed his heart and he took a step forward, debating on whether or not to give pursuit. Harry, he knew, was very quiet and often withdrew into his shell when he felt wronged. His presence would hardly change that, he was aware, but still…

Remus came up next to him, his light brown eyes settled on the same door that James himself was looking at. The werewolf glanced quickly at his best friend, noting the lost expression that tightened the man's face, and sighed, slipping by.

"I'll go after him…"

"No." James's hand shot out to grab his friend's wrist, locking him in place. Remus stopped to look back, an eyebrow raised in questioning. "James?"

"Don't. Harry… when he gets in moods like this, he likes to be alone…"

Remus rolled his eyes, gently unclenching James's fingers from around his limb. "James, he just got publicly humiliated for simply wanting to learn… you shouldn't let him stew in that, it's not healthy for a child."

"I think I know what's best for my kid," James snapped, having to speak loudly over the cheering crowd that had gathered around Michael. Remus took a step towards the door in response, his eyes voicing the unasked question: _Do you?_

James sighed, running a hand through his messy hair, slicking it back. "Look, I… let's not ruin the night, okay? Tonight is _Michael's_ night. I'll talk to Harry tomorrow, I promise."

Remus looked doubtful, but allowed James to pull him back into the party.

**.**

**Lily**

**.**

Lily gently pulled her son into a hug, beaming. "I'm so proud of you, Michael," she whispered, squeezing his head to her bosom. "You're going to excel under Dumbledore's tutelage, I just know it."

Michael turned his face up to face her, excitement widening his eyes. "I know! This is so cool! Just wait'll I tell Ron!" He suddenly paused, looking slightly bemused, biting his lip. "But what's up with Harry? Shouldn't he be celebrating?"

Lily frowned, remembering the way Harry had quietly left the room without saying a word of congratulations to Michael.

"Don't worry, sweetie, he's just slightly jealous, that's all. I'll talk to him tomorrow, if you'd like." Michael nodded, looking slightly annoyed, rolling his dark brown eyes.

"He's always being so dramatic…"

"Well, now, let's not be judgmental," Lily said absently, her frown deepening as she thought harder over what had taken place.

Had…had there been tears in Harry's eyes? He couldn't possibly be that upset over this, could he? Had something happened while she was fetching Michael?

She looked back down when Michael suddenly dashed from her side, throwing himself into the waiting arms of another individual from the Order, giggling as he engaged the man in conversation. Lily smiled lovingly as Michael made some kind of joke that had all nearby wizards and witches clutching their stomachs, bent over with laughter.

She was so proud of him. She couldn't believe it when Dumbledore had pulled her aside early into the party to confess his desire to mentor Michael. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Merlin knows she'd be able to sleep more easily once her baby had a few years of training with the most powerful wizard alive under his belt.

A witch passing by snagged her lightly by the arm, walking alongside her as she gushed about Michael. Lily smiled and nodded to every one of the lady's comments, but her heart wasn't in it. Tonight was a happy night, full of life and new purpose.

So why had a bad feeling settled in the pit of her stomach?

**.**

**Dumbledore**

**.**

He took down the notice-me-not charm when he had safely made it into the hallway, breathing a small sigh of relief as he closed the door firmly.

He needed to find Harry, and explain his actions to him. His heart puckered at the thought of the bright tears of raw hurt shining in the twin emeralds. The poor boy. Dumbledore felt pity for him; it was obviously not fun being the younger brother of the most famous young wizard alive. In fact, most people barely even knew the child existed.

Dumbledore berated himself mentally as he padded down the hallway, following the wispy aura trail of pure despair the boy had left in wake of his desperate escape. How could he have been so blind? He should have paid more attention to the younger twin before this whole fiasco.

The boy's magical signature, suppressed as it was, was a very distinct, light gray color, and this worried Dumbledore. Most Light wizards' cores were very light shades from the color spectrum, and Dark wizard's generally contained the darker counterparts.

For Harry's to be gray, the medium between… well, it was alarming.

_But it's okay,_ Dumbledore thought, pausing outside the bathroom and nudging the door open. _I'm going to rectify things right now. _The porcelain lid was flipped up, and the bowl contained a sizable amount of vomit—had Harry been sick? He helpfully flushed the toilet and moved on, determined to make things right.

There was an anxious, bad feeling forming in his gut.

His gut was rarely ever wrong.

**.**

**Voldemort**

**.**

With the aid of a point-me charm, finding the specific spot Wormtail had mentioned was quite easy. He broke through the last fringe of trees that circled the sizable clearing, his eyes instantly focusing on the angled rock that jutted out of the ground, overreaching over the large creek. He twisted, grinding his heel into the soft, muddy ground, and suddenly, he was standing on top of the boulder, looking down over the rippling river. Bored, he shifted slightly to look out into the forest from his elevated position. Upon seeing nothing, he settled himself gracefully on the rock's edge, leisurely tapping his wand against his knee.

_Come to me, Harry… I await our meeting eagerly._

**.**

**.**

Several long minutes later, his constantly scanning core detected another magical being in the vicinity. He frowned in thought as he rested his chin on his hand. The boy's magic seemed slightly muted, repressed, even. Curious.

Another minute as the presence continually grew stronger. Voldemort could almost smell the boy, he was so close… he brushed his thumb over the curved side of his wand, waiting with bated breath…

He heard the scarcely audible rustle as the child pushed a branch out of his way—ironically using the same entrance point that Voldemort himself had used—and stumbled into the clearing. He did not turn his head to acknowledge the arrival. He would let the child—the prey—make the first move.

It was always more exciting that way.

He waited to hear a light intake of breath, a horrified scream, or _anything _when he felt shocked eyes fall on his lean form. Eyes lightly closed, he smiled, listening…

Nothing.

Kind of annoyed, he barely turned his head to the side, peeking at the boy through his peripheral vision. The small body at the edge of the clearing was dappled in shadows, but he could still make out the wiry figure easing itself noiselessly back into the forest, taking slow, careful movements.

_Smart boy._

He got to his feet smoothly and turned. He could see faintly glowing, expressive green eyes staring at him in awe from the shadows. He grinned, razor-sharp, aware that the boy couldn't see it. Those stunning eyes slowly blinked once, then winked out of existence when the child turned to run.

He pursed his lips. _We can't have that…_

He apparated directly in front of the boy, not even stumbling when the lad smacked bodily into his chest. The breath left the child's lungs in a surprisingly high-pitched "_Oof_!" Voldemort frowned, looking down at the tiny figure in front of him.

He was so small… he couldn't possibly be eight, almost nine. He looked six, maybe seven at the most! Harry gave a quick twist of his shoulders, looking back at his previous spot with clear confusion. Voldemort quietly unsheathed his wand and touched it to the child's chest, watching the luminous eyes snap back to him.

"Leaving so soon?" He murmured, faintly amused as the boy shuddered slightly. "But we haven't even exchanged names yet…"

He should kill the boy now, before anything happened, but he had all the time in the world… why not have a little fun?

He was vaguely surprised when the brat squared his shoulders and looked him right in the eyes—his eyes intimidated even the most hardened of wizards, so what made this child so different? The boy took a cautious step backwards, and Voldemort followed him, moving into the light-filled clearing.

_Smart move. He knew he was at a disadvantage, so he tried to even the odds… very smart child. _

As the boy backed up, more light from the moon poured onto his features like silver water paint.

He was… small, and skinny, wearing clothes that were a size or two too large. They hung off his slight frame like bed sheets. His dark hair was long, tumbling down to his eyes and past his ears, nearly to his jawline. His hairstyle was messy and it stuck up slightly in the back, but it somehow fit his image.

His skin was creamy white and smooth, like a baby's, and his button nose only added to the cute look. But it were his eyes that sealed the deal. They were impossibly large and round, shining with youthful innocence… but no. Not completely. He could see the shadows lurking in the fluorescent green, hanging off the pupil, that lent the boy a jaded, embittered look. He possessed the body of a six year old, but the eyes glittered dully with acceptance of the harsh reality that life wasn't always what it was cracked up to be.

Hmm. Life and death, both swirling for dominance in those endless green pools. So paradoxical. So _intriguing_.

Drawn in by those stunning irises, he slowly moved forward, forcing the child to continue backing up. When he had emerged fully into the moonlight, he waited with silent amusement as the child began to survey him, his emerald eyes flicking hungrily over his every feature. When he felt he had given the boy enough time to look at him, he waved his wand, tapping the kid's small chest to gain his attention.

What to say? He already knew nearly everything biographical there was to know about the boy, but that wasn't enough. It wasn't satisfying. He wanted the words to tumble off the boy's tongue like leaves falling from a tree. He ached to hear the child admit who he was, just so he could unveil the truth—_Oh you think your brother is the boy-who-just-wouldn't-die, is that it? Well, I don't really hate to break this to you, but they're all wrong. It's _**_you_**_._ And then he would unleash an _Avada Kedavra_ and watch the light fade from those vivid eyes, watch the shadows clinging to the fringes of the irises uncoil and slither over the green—

"What is… a child… doing out in these deep, dark woods… _alone_… at night?" He breathed, an insatiable hunger beginning to yearn inside of him, begging for the child's blood. Adrenalin, icy cold, was pumping through his veins, triggered by his carefully concealed manic excitement. He began to trace small circles on the boy's chest with his wand, hiding a smirk when the lad flinched. He graciously gave him another second to collect his thoughts, anticipating what his voice would sound like…

The boy suddenly beamed at him, temporarily throwing him off balance. "I'm not quite sure, sir, but if you let me check with my parents, I'm sure I could find out." His white-toothed smile was so bright, _so fake, _it gleamed in the watery light that filled the clearing. His voice, while high-pitched with youth, was quietly confident and demure.

_Hmm, the Chosen One is a little liar…and quite a good one…Oh, such a pity he has to die… I meant what I said eight years ago—he would have made a great follower._

But he'd play along.

"Your family?" He arched a brow, pretending to look interested. "Are they near?" He noted the slightly incredulous look cross the child's face, like _He bought it?_ The look was gone in a flash, replaced by forced, childish enthusiasm.

"Mhmm! We were on our way back from the National Dueling Tournament—my dad placed third—and thought we'd camp out tonight in the woods."

_Oh really? And I suppose you just "accidentally" crossed the Potter Land boundary?_

Nonetheless, it was a rather decent attempt for one so young. He recognized the hidden intimidation tactic (_My dad placed third_) carefully layered behind the faux zeal. The only thing he should have done was drop a few names in his tale—names always add a sense of credibility to a lie.

He smirked. "Liar," he whispered softly, forcing his wand a little harder into the child's chest. Amusing, yes, but he would not tolerate being lied to. "The last National Dueling Tournament was fifteen years ago."

Harry shrugged in return, feigning ease. "I'm older than I look," he said matter-of-factly. Voldemort allowed himself to chuckle, quietly amazed by this—this _child_ that had talked to him without breaking down in tears of fright—it was exhilarating. Voldemort remembered his school days, when he was the Slytherin King, the boy who ruled the castle from the shadows. Back then, whenever someone opposed him, he would play with them like they were his toys—sparring verbally (and sometimes using magic) with them, twisting their words around, _ruining their lives—_until they'd break, becoming one of his boot-licking followers, craving his attention. He was sadistic, he knew, in the way that he would crush his opponents slowly, just so he could longer enjoy the look of pain and desperation that sprang tears to their eyes.

Yet ever since he had emerged publicly as Lord Voldemort, no one had dared to challenge him—except the fool Dumbledore—and strangely, Voldemort found himself missing the constant battles of wits he used to engage in, the feeling of earning something that he'd fought tooth and nail for, the feeling of actually having to _try._ The rush was just as sweet as he remembered it to be.

"A valiant effort, I'll give you that, but I know a lie when I see one." He bent over, placing his mouth near the frozen boy's ear, basking cruelly in the barely restrained shudder that resulted. "So I'll ask you once again…" His voice sank to a slow, breathy whisper, accentuated with an almost inaudible hiss, so quiet that the child didn't even notice. "Why are you here, child?" Harry's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, and Voldemort smirked, unmoving, his nostrils invaded by the unique scent of the boy's hair: a strange mix of lilac and the lingering fragrance of pine needles.

"I wanted to be alone, and this is the spot where I always come—" The child choked suddenly, alarm flaring across his face as Voldemort processed the information, scarlet eyes gleaming. He'd already known this from Wormtail, but it was so satisfying, he was one step closer to coaxing the boy's self-believed lie out into the open… he could almost taste the satisfaction on his tongue…

He inclined his head, silently telling the boy to continue, suppressing his amusement when he did.

"I—I didn't think anyone else knew about it." Stuttering. Flicking eyes. The child's carefully woven composure was fraying at the edges, and he knew it. "What about you, sir? What's your name?"

_Attempting to redirect the conversation. Clever, but ineffective when used on someone like me._

"No, no," he tutted sharply, his voice light and mockingly playful. "Let's not switch the conversation so rudely. It is proper etiquette for one to introduce himself before asking for the name of the other."

It was a silent, unvoiced test. Would the brat pick up on the fact that he had requested his name first?

"Then why haven't you told me your name yet?" The boy blurted—good, very good—"I mean, you asked for mine first."

Above them, the moon hid itself behind a cover of clouds that had drifted in from the east, plunging the clearing into darkness.

But he could still see those childish _elderly_ eyes so clearly.

"Sharp, very sharp…" It had been amusing, interacting with this boy, but he had come here for a purpose, and a purpose he would fulfill. He readied himself mentally, summoning the hatred needed to cast the killing curse.

One last parting exchange…

He circled the child, observing him, committing his every detail to memory—who knows, perhaps he'd leave his body among a bouquet of flowers, small pale hands clasped over his chest in the standard funeral position as a testament, to say, to this entertaining bout.

"But I tire of this meaningless verbal spar," he spoke flippantly, giving a theatric sigh.

_Not really. _He could stand here all night going back and forth with this amusing child—but the boy didn't need to know that, of course. "It is no fun when battling with such a young opponent…"

He made his move. With one lightning-quick step, he was literally standing right behind the boy, gripping his shoulder with unmerciful fingers—

A sharp bolt of pain lanced through his forehead, and _something _suddenly had access to the memory of the questions he'd been asking internally and debating whether or not to ask the child, to continue their game—_Why is a child out here alone what's his name does he know the Potters can he be used as a hostage?__—_Voldemort barely kept himself from recoiling in shock as he forcefully repelled the mental intrusion.

_How—could it be…_

Suddenly viciously serious, he spun the boy around and caught his chin, tilting his head up to face him. Those eyes… once so clear, now clouded with confusion, fright, and… was that a red tinge fading rapidly from the iris?

"_Legilimens."_

Gaining access into the boy's mind was harder than he thought. For some unknown reason, as soon as he entered the mindscape, crippling pain attacked him as if rabid wolves were sinking their fangs into his flesh.

Not the least bit guilty, he skillfully redirected the flow of agony, aiming it right back at the boy's own mind. It was a special legilimen maneuver, one that captured the defender's own strength and turned it back on them.

Outside, in the real world, the child fell to his knees, screaming his little lungs out. Voldemort wished he would shut up; the sound was distracting.

He delved deeply into the mind, shattering open layers upon layers as he went, diving down, down, down, into the darkest recesses of the boy's head where the most vile of emotions, thoughts, and memories dwelled, drifting past him like strands of thick, sticky black ink that clung to him as he passed. A piece of solidified energy attached to his back kept him from being immediately ejected out of the boy's mind, acting like a support rope.

_Bitterness._

_Anger. _

_Loneliness. _

_Despair._

_Unwanted. _

_Unnoticed._

_He was five, watching from the shadows as his mother and father fretted over Michael, who lay in the white hospital bed, looking rather pathetic. A thick white bandage was wrapped around the injured boy's head. A nurse was flitting about, clipboard in hand. _

"_He'll be fine," she promised professionally, "It's only a concussion. He's a lucky boy, to have escaped a Death Eater ambush with only a concussion."_

_James cursed loudly, tears gathering in his eyes. "How low of them," he hissed, "to attack a child waiting outside of his school building! It's a good thing I'd left early to go pick him up!"_

"_Vile scum," Lily spat harshly—the harshest Harry had ever heard his mother speak. It scared him. "You'd think they'd get the hint that Voldemort won't be coming back, instead of committing these random acts of terrorism!" She broke down in sobs, clutching Michael's hand. James looped a comforting arm around her slim shoulders, pulling her closer. _

"_We'll have to switch houses again," he whispered sadly. "They know our location." Lily, snuffling, agreed. _

_He looked past them, leaning on the edge of his hard plastic seat to get a good view of his brother in the comfy-looking bed. Michael was milking it for all he was worth, moaning occasionally as he rolled his head. _

"_Mummy," he whispered weakly, his voice sounding faint, as if he'd keel over at any moment—Harry was reluctantly impressed—"Do I have to go to school tomorrow?" He coughed thickly, though Harry knew that coughing was not a symptom of a concussion. Lily shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. _

"_Of course not, darling, I'll write you out for the week, Harry can pick up your assignments for the days you miss and help you stay caught up with the material."_

_Resentment rose inside him—no, he didn't want to do that. He loved Michael, but every kid hated doing homework, and now his mother was asking him to fetch his brother's AND teach the subjects to him?_

_His arm throbbed, and he winced, tugging his sleeve over the shallow wound. He'd been standing outside the school with his brother when the Death Eaters attacked. He'd immediately thrown his twin out of the way of an incoming slicing hex, accidentally bowling him over into the side of the building—where his brother had received his concussion—but the curse had nicked him in the arm. It was clotting now, though, so it was okay. Besides, Michael was more important, and had even thanked him later (or maybe that was just the concussion speaking) as their father frantically prepared to apparate them to the hospital. _

_He was sure he could just slap a Magi-Bandage on it when they got home. (Okay, it might take a couple to cover the scratch, and it would sting like heck, but he could deal. He was five after all, too big to complain about a simple scratch when Michael was enduring a concussion.) He idly wondered if his mother would be mad when she realized he had stained the sleeve with some of his blood._

_No one asked him for his opinion on the matter about the schoolwork, so Harry didn't give it. Besides, that was the last year they ever went to public school, anyway._

_He simply sat quietly in the corner, saying nothing, being just what he was born to be—a shadow on the wall. _

Voldemort shook off the memory, and the clingy black substance drifted away from him, spiraling back into the darkness. Slightly surprised by the vision he had been shown—honestly, how could Harry's parents have missed the medium-sized bloodstain on the sleeve of his school blazer?

It was then that he heard something calling him eagerly, beckoning him urgently from the ambiguous depths. The call was alluring, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes, moving (swimming? The mode of movement used when inside another's mind was always unclear) forward, following the call.

The dark strands, the memories, that drifted serenely around him grew agitated, banding together to form rattling chains that flew forward in an attempt to immobilize him. Voldemort waited until they were nearly close enough to reach out and grab, preparing to burn them away with a blast of focused mind-energy, but—

They slowed as they approached, then froze, quivering as they restrained themselves. One particularly daring one slithered forward cautiously, twining around his wrist. It felt cool and slimy on his skin, and not quite solid, like he could wave his hand through it and it would dissipate. He waited, genuinely curious, observing with sharp eyes.

Seconds later, apparently satisfied, the memory loosened its hold and turned, ambling back to its little group. As one, the pulsating mass floated away, leaving the invisible path unguarded. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, although he was puzzled by their behavior, he pressed onwards.

In a few moments, he reached the child's core.

It was unlike anything he'd ever seen. The flickering, dull white (gray, really) orb hung suspended in the darkness, shedding a bright radiance that made Voldemort squint as he approached. The air became supercharged as he closed in, like volts of electricity were being released into the atmosphere.

As he drew near, he noticed something unusual. Tangled, writhing black strands that radiated delicious darkness were actually wrapped around the orb, drastically dimming the glow that was forced to peek around the squirming substance. He took another mind-step, and a tendril of the black stuff immediately shot towards him, touching his forehead, practically humming in content.

His rubescent eyes widened in shock as a feeling of wholeness enveloped him like water splashing into a cup, filling it to the brim.

His soul.

A literal piece of his _soul _was attached to the child's core, nearly strangling it. His mind processed the facts with ease, but he had trouble daring to believe his conclusion.

A horcrux.

Harry was a horcrux.

Harry, the unknown savior, was _his_ horcrux.

In his shock, he neglected to maintain the defense that tethered him to the child's mind like a safety line suspended a mountain climber. The rope immediately unraveled and snapped, and then he was flying upwards, being dragged through the layers of the child's mind at an incredible speed, and then—

He stumbled back, gasping when fresh night air suddenly assaulted his senses, and the sudden sensation of _feeling_ tangible things again-like the solid ground beneath his feet-overwhelmed him temporarily.

Breathing deeply and waiting for his heartbeat to calm, he looked down, where Harry lay at his feet, unconscious, like a discarded rag doll. The child's skin was deathly pale—almost as white as Voldemort's—and his eyelids were lightly closed. His body twitched spasmodically, still experiencing phantom pains. His queer lightning bolt scar had split open, and it poured blood as well as a foul, dark aura.

For a second, Voldemort could do nothing but stare at the child's slightly pained expression. He lay sprawled on his back, his black hair, soaked with sweat, clinging to his skin. Half of his face was stained bright red by the blood.

An intense feeling of possessiveness surged inside him, and his long fingers twitched, aching to grab the child and apparate away.

Instead, he threw his head back, roaring in gleeful laughter as he lowered himself to his knees, lifting the child's limp head to rest in his lap.

_Mine._

_Mine._

_Mine._

His eyes burned bright red, almost orange, as though twin flames had been lit inside. He began to stroke the child's mop of hair out of the way of the scar, lips still stretched wide in a crazed grin.

_The one prophesized to destroy me—mine! My horcrux! MY POSSESSION. He belongs to me!_

How could he have not sensed this earlier? Now consciously aware of the presence of his soul lodged deeply within the child's mind, he could _feel_ the link that existed between them, bonding them together. His thoughts briefly flicked back to the time when Wormtail had not yet reported the new location of the Potter's house, and he had attempted to find the boy-who-lived using his ability to scan for specific magic signatures. He had always thought he could sense _something_; he was just never sure what.

The child stirred slightly, his small mouth opening to pant for air. Voldemort absently spelled away the blood that drenched his skin and clothes, starting to frown.

Reality was kicking in, and he realized the problems that had arisen. He could not kill the child, not if he wanted to lose a bit of his soul permanently. Yes, his soul was too deeply enrooted in the child at this point to try and separate it. It would get destroyed in the process.

Even worse, his little horcrux was being raised by the _light, _under Dumbledore's thumb, and that simply would not do. The persistent urge to abduct the child then and there grew greatly at the thought, but he steeled himself, thinking his actions through.

Option 1: He could kill the child and lose the bit of soul in the process as a necessary sacrifice. _No._

Option 2: He could kidnap the boy, but… no… then the light would increase their efforts to find him, and that would not benefit his plans at all.

Option 3: He could work on secretly turning the boy to his side, but allow the child to remain with his family. Harry had already proved with his quick thinking that he would be a valuable asset.

…

It had merit…

Unconsciously, he pulled the thin body closer to him, arms encircling the small shoulders as he glared down fiercely at the little boy's sleeping face.

_Mine._

Oh, how he hated it when other people played with his things…


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: O.O Something is wrong with me. I can't stop writing this story! I'm serious, it sometimes takes me months to crank out chapters even shorter than these… Did you know, this story is already fifty pages in my laptop? That's crazy! 50 pages in, like, three days! **

**Special Thanks to: Joleigh13, CheeseTheThimbleSneeze, The Golden Boy, Primordial Soul, Toby 860, Lady Leaf8, Murder the Gaa, LadyDragonIchi, Q, Dormiveglia, coldblue, Georgia Mcdonald, jenn008, Guest, emarald777, Maleivius, Riqis Inna Sunja, verbgrace, Yoshi-Strange, AlleyKat2134, Morgaur, NIkly, CoNfUsEdByLyFe, Gemini Peverell, Stardust of Orion, SelKar, Kathrin J Pearl, RmfD, Magic Dobby, devilchild1000, Kendra Dyhanna (hola amiga! ) Guest, Beezlebubbles, theonethatwrites, garp the fist. **

**This story is in EIGHT. COMMUNITIES. Holy mother of chocolate pancakes. I swear I have the kindest reviewers ever, you all leave me such encouraging, nice, (LONG! I LOVE YOU!) reviews!**

**Pairing Update: Just in case anyone missed, this is not slash. Voldemort is creepy, not preying on little Harry, lol. Most of you are pushing for a DG/HP story. Anyone upset with that?**

**Coldblue: I have a good idea about what I'm doing with the wands, thanks to you. ;) (I swear I get hit with a million ideas every time I read your suggestions.) As for what Harry will be good at, I suppose you'll have to wait a little more 'til we get to Hogwarts. Sirius and Remus will be getting bigger parts as the story wears on, don't worry. ;)**

**Murder the Gaa: 1. Not yet, he doesn't. 2. Maybe. ;) 3. I won't ever make Harry a death eater. I feel as though DE's are just unimportant minions, and Harry is much more than that. **

**Kathrin J Pearl: _"And we have a very possessive Voldy." _ Yes, yes we do. I'm trying to keep Voldemort IC, and I always thought he was incredibly possessive from what little snippets were given that revealed his inner workings.**

**The Golden Boy: Lol, don't worry, it was actually pretty easy. **

**Misconceptions **

**Chapter 4**

**By: Dreams2Paper11**

Everything hurt.

Terrible achy pains, ones that unexpectedly intensified or subsided in random intervals, wracked his entire body. His mouth was dry… every breath clawed itself roughly past his sandpapery throat, whispering over his cracked lips.

There was a golden snidget stuck in his head, he was sure of it, bouncing around the confines of his skull, piercing his brain with its sharp beak…

_Ah_… his _head_…

He was vaguely aware of deep, sinister laughter somewhere near him, but everything felt oddly surreal and nightmarish… was he dreaming? The cruel sound pierced his ears like knives, worsening his headache.

He wanted to wake up.

He shifted his head slightly, the most movement he could manage at the moment. His eyelids flickered as he, ever the fighter, forced himself to the surface, nearing consciousness…

Something began to comb through his hair, gently parting the snarls, and it just felt so _good_, like what his father used to do to him when he was little, getting ready for bed…

Two firm limbs lifted him partly off the ground, wrapped around his shoulders. Just how his mother… liked to hold him, back then… when she… when she… she…

He tripped; lost his upwards momentum. The shadows gently ensnared his ankles and pulled him, so slowly, so _caringly_, back down into the peaceful abyss.

**.**

**.**

"Are you awake?"

The softy inquiring voice was smooth, like butter melting in a heated pan, and strangely very familiar. He unsealed one sticky eyelid, forcing his interlocked lashes to part. His vision was shaky and crossed continuously by tiny, blinking dots, but coming slowly into focus like a settling photograph.

It was dark.

It was dark and he was cold and his head hurt. The repercussions of his horrible headache lurked in the back of his mind like a tangible creature that lashed out bad-temperedly every few seconds. His mouth parted and cool night air rushed in, instantly drying out his tongue. He snapped it closed again, working to moisten it so that it behaved less like a floppy wad of paper and more like a proper tongue.

A face swam into view briefly, but before he could get a good look, arms were moving him, easing his torso upwards off the ground so that he was slumped forward in a sitting position.

Awareness trickled back to him as slowly as water droplets formed and fell from a lightly leaking faucet. He began to regain control in his limbs, stiff from lying still for so long. He twitched his dead fingers experimentally and was hazily satisfied when they responded properly.

A round of vertigo suddenly unbalanced him and he began to fall backwards. An arm caught him right before he hit the floor again and pulled him in, leaning his loose body against something both soft and firm at the same time that moved up and down ever so slightly, cycling.

His eyelids had closed again a long time ago, but they fluttered open once more when something hard and metal was pressed to his lips—a chalice. He opened his mouth instinctually and a yucky liquid managed to stream in for a second before he pulled a face and turned his head away. Some of it dripped down his chin, and nearby, the voice that had spoken earlier sighed. Fingers smudged the driblet from his skin. Then the persistent rim of the cup was pushed against his lips again. His face twisted in protest.

"No… don' wannit…" Speaking was hard. His tongue refused to form the words he wanted… he sounded like a stupid little kid…

The arms holding him upright tightened fractionally, then relaxed again.

"Drink… this will help your headache…" It felt like someone brushed a curious feather across his brain, and he shuddered briefly at the uncomfortable, unnatural sensation, but then a warm buzz was pouring into his being, his mind sinking into a haze of pleased wholesomeness.

He opened his mouth obediently and drank.

It was lukewarm, tasted absolutely vile, and possessed an odd sort of viscosity, thicker than water but not quite like gelatin. He shivered in repulsion as it worked its way down his throat.

As slow as the aftertaste was to leave, however, its effects were much more immediate. The thick fog that shrouded his mind began to roll away. Shaky strength seeped into his muscles as clarity struck him like a lightning bolt. With a startled gasp, his eyes flew open, the dilated pupils immediately roving back and forth. They took a second to adjust, and that was one second too many to the frightened child.

Still half-blind, he staggered out of the warm lap, trying to run away. Iron bars formed out of nowhere—magic, of course, he was such an idiot—and slammed down around him, hedging him off. The poles sank deeply into the softened ground, and he didn't even have to try to know that they weren't moving anytime soon.

He could barely breathe around his heart trying to jump out of his throat. He turned around quickly, pushing his back against the cage.

The man—dang it, he still didn't know his name—observed him from where he rested in the shadows, back casually leaned against a massive oak. The narrow, sharp red eyes blinked lazily.

"Well, that was a tad dramatic. I was simply trying to make sure you were feeling adequate."

"Yeah, after you did that—that creepy mind thing?" He snarled heatedly in response, his voice tremulous at the thought of the soul-ripping pain. His little fingers closed around his silver watch, preparing to tap thrice. At this point, he didn't care if the man saw him; he just wanted to get home safely.

In the dimness, he thought he saw the man raise his eyebrow. "Well, that's a new name for Legilimency." A slow, mocking clap. "'Creepy Mind Thing.' Very eloquent."

_Legilimency. _Harry filed the name away in his brain, determined to research the subject later. Hopefully there would be a defense for it. He forced back a shudder—never again. He'd never experienced pain like that which the creepy mi—Legilimency had wrought upon him.

"What do you want with me?" He asked, almost breathless in fear. It was the first time the thought had occurred to him. Nobody ever really wanted anything to do with him… why was this person different? "Who _are _you?" The man was silent for a second, before he finally answered in a thoughtful tone, "Ravolom." It was pronounced _Ra-voh-loam_, with stress over the _Ra_. "Who are _you_?" the man added, leaning forward with interest.

Harry gritted his teeth. As if he was going to tell him! The moment the (admittedly scary) man heard that he was the brother of the boy-who-lived, he'd probably be held for ransom… or worse. "Like I'm telling you, you—you big fat, stupid _meanie!"_ He balled his fists in satisfaction; that'd show him! His mum and dad always got angry when he called someone names. If they were here, he'd get a stern talking-to.

He froze a moment later, though, the triumphant smirk fading from his face. He'd expected an outraged gasp, or a shocked expression… not _laughter. _

The man _was_ laughing heartily, holding a hand to his mouth, still somehow managing to look poised and sophisticated while he chuckled into his palm. "Unfortunately," he said to a wide-eyed Harry when he'd finished, "that juvenile accusation is not completely true, seeing as I am neither fat nor stupid."

He noticed that the ma—Ravolom had not refuted the 'meanie' part.

"And as for what I want with you… " He examined his flawless nails, suddenly serious. "Well, it's more of what _you_ want from _me_."

Puzzled, thrown off guard, he said, "Huh? I—I never asked you for anything."

The man lightly twitched his free hand, and the iron bars went up in a poof of wispy smoke. Harry toppled over as his support vanished, landing ungracefully on his back, mouth dropping open even as he went down. Wandless magic. Ravolom had done _wandless magic. _

"There is something you desperately want that _I_ can give to you…" The man called to him, rising to his feet and dusting his robes off. He extended his hand. The drained chalice gleamed dully in his palm. "Something that your blood sings for… _craves…_something that you have long been denied…" The cup suddenly shone like the full moon as it rippled, transforming from silver into delicate, crystalline glass. Harry watched, shocked into silence, from where he lay, propped up on his elbows.

It was not a hard concept; Ravolom's point began to click in Harry's head. His heart stuttered in his chest.

"Something that others… have deemed you unworthy of possessing…" The pale fingers, wrapped around the base of the cup, squeezed harshly. The newly fragile glass shattered immediately, fragments popping everywhere with a loud crashing noise. Ravolom quickly waved his now empty hand, and the largest remnants banded together as they fell and conformed, growing lustrous white feathers and a small, pointed orange beak.

The dove flew, splendid in its grace, over to Harry, looping around his head. Its soft primary feathers brushed against the bare skin of his neck as it circled around his back and headed over to Ravolom, settling itself on his shoulder in a flurry of glittering movement. It crooned softly and twisted its neck in a very bird-like motion to preen under its wings.

Harry stared, entranced, his eyes star-struck. Shifting slowly so as to not break the boy's daze, Ravolom held out his palm. The bird immediately hopped from his shoulder to his hand.

"But we know better, don't we, Harry?" He asked quietly. His eyes might have been gentle if not for the sly glitter that twinkled madly in the snake-ish pupils. His handsome smile might have been kind if not for the wicked shadows that cloaked his tall frame like a dark blanket.

So entranced by the stunning, blatant display of skill, Harry did not stop to wonder when Ravolom had learned his name.

Ravolom took a large step forward, holding out the bird in his hand like a peace offering. "Would you like to hold her, Harry?" He asked softly, kneeling in front of the awed child.

Harry looked up, then down, fighting with himself. He knew he should be running, should be screaming for help…

…but that magic was so _alluring…_

He held out his hands before he could stop himself, cupping them to form a suitable platform. Ravolom whispered a word in a foreign language and the bird suddenly fluttered into the child's palms. Harry looked down at the small creature with wonder. It was warm, and so fluffy, so soft. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before.

Hesitantly, he stroked the bird's downy head with nimble fingers, being very careful not to hurt it.

"Magic is a gift," Ravolom murmured, moving his hands to cover Harry's young ones and guide the small fingers to a pressure point on the creature's back, beneath the wing joints. He applied the smallest bit of force, just enough to make the bird suddenly expand its beautiful wings, displaying the long, incredibly soft feathers. Harry sucked in a quick breath. Ravolom kept his thumbs on the nerve points for a few more seconds before he withdrew, sitting back.

"One you should not miss out on just because your parents believe you to be incompetent."

_That _snapped Harry out of his trance. "They don't think I'm incompetent!" He countered quickly, more out of self-defense than anything. "I'm their son!"

Ravolom nodded his head seriously in agreement, but his previously gentle voice suddenly gained a razor sharp edge.

"Yes, you are," he conceded, and then paused. "But you're not _that_ son… are you?"

Harry flinched heavily at that, almost dropping the bird held tenderly in his hands. The words cut him like whips, drawing blood.

His wounded, infected heart twitched weakly in his chest.

"I… I don't…" He didn't know what to say. His mind had scrambled itself. He missed the flash of cruel enjoyment in Ravolom's eyes, but it wasn't really his fault. It was gone as quick as it appeared, sliding effortlessly back beneath the mask of kindness.

"You don't what, Harry? You don't understand? I can't blame you… They lavish Michael with presents and games and _love_… they seem so caring, so wise… tell me, why isn't any of that given to you? Even Michael's cup, as bottomless as it seems, must fill eventually, and that beautiful love should overflow to you as well… so why hasn't it?"

Tears pricked at Harry's eyes. He shook his head jerkily. "Stop…"

The sick gleam in Ravolom's eyes shone brighter, peaking out from behind the horribly gentle semblance. "Why hasn't it, Harry? Why don't they treat you the same? Why don't they notice you?"

Harry's shaking hands rose, clamping firmly over his ears. "Stop…" He muttered, blurry eyes staring unseeingly at the leaf-littered ground. Ravolom moved closer and abruptly grabbed his fingers, his savage motions contradicting his continued simpering tone. The dove was startled out of Harry's hold. Ravolom simply flicked his eyes to the animal and it shuddered, going stiff and falling over with a small thud. The body molted, reverting back to the curved fragments of glass. Harry let out a distressed cry, and the first tears spilled over his lower lids. Ravolom deftly caught the young chin, not yet sharpened by age, and jerked it back to him, forcefully grasping the boy's attention.

"Oh, I know it hurts, child… you try so hard to be good, don't you? Yes, you do, I can see it in those expressive eyes of yours…" He smoothed away the tears with the pad of his thumb, flicking the residue off his finger as he continued to wipe the boy's eyes.

Harry pulled his chin out of the man's tight grip and stood, staggering backwards, shaking his head frantically. "Stop, please—!" He choked, his chest feeling inexplicably tight when he glanced at the lifeless glass pieces that glittered among the grass.

"Why hasn't it, Harry?" Ravolom repeated forcefully, suddenly looming to his full height and stalking forward.

"Stop!" Harry, blinded in terror, began to back away, sniffling. _Don't cry don't cry don't cry—_

"_Why hasn't it?" _Ravolom hissed, as loud as thunder. The branches of the trees that ringed the clearing shook, loose leaves swirling down around them. The man's voice crackled with magic, and Harry's heart skipped a beat in pure fear. The last string snapped, the dam broke, and the suppressed tears inundated his eyes, flooding down his face. Years of walls woven together from feigned ignorance, fake _indifference_ cracked, and then burst apart, and Harry was, quite suddenly, more defenseless than he'd ever been.

"_I don't know!" _He screamed back, just as loud, falling to his knees, his hands knotting anxiously in the grass, tearing out blades as the horrible confession began to tumble from his lips—he couldn't stop it, even if he wanted to. "I don't _know!_ I try—I try so hard to be the p-perfect child… I try to be lovable, worthy, b-but it's _never enough _and I'm so s-sick of trying and I don't even know what to _do_ anymore…" He broke down into gut-wrenching sobs, his face cradled in his sweaty palms. His shoulders shuddered; deep, heaving tremors that shook his whole body like a shark ripped into its prey.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know—" His jaw moved restlessly; the vulnerable words just wouldn't _stop—_his dams were broken down, there was no hope of withholding the tidal surge.

Hands, surprisingly lenient, pulled him forward, and he threw his arms around the person's neck, past the point of caring as he sobbed helplessly.

"I don't know, I don't know, _I don't know—"_ The placid hands held him closely. Awkwardly at first, but expertly picking up a rhythm, they began to rub small circles into his back, right between his shoulder blades. "I understand…" The voice murmured, the hot breath tickling his ear and stirring his raven hair slightly.

Harry cried for several minutes, and every time his sobs intensified, Ravolom soothed them away tenderly. Harry's eyes were squeezed shut tightly, but tears—oh, how he hated those signs of weakness—still managed to escape, drenching his cheeks and Ravolom's fine black silk robes.

"It stings, I know…" Ravolom disentangled the boy from him, holding his upper arms. Harry's eyes filled up again and Ravolom hurriedly continued, "But it doesn't have to…"

Harry wiped furiously at his face, his cheeks going red at the realization that he had just revealed his innermost fears (and cried on, but he was trying not to think about that) to a complete stranger.

"How?" He whispered. The forest stilled abruptly all around them. Holding its breath. The stars dazzled coldly.

Ravolom suppressed a victorious smile.

**.**

**.**

**Special Thanks to: Joleigh13, CheeseTheThimbleSneeze, The Golden Boy, Primordial Soul, Toby 860, Lady Leaf8, Murder the Gaa, LadyDragonIchi, Q, Dormiveglia, coldblue, Georgia Mcdonald, jenn008, Guest, emarald777, Maleivius, Riqis Inna Sunja, verbgrace, Yoshi-Strange, AlleyKat2134, Morgaur, NIkly, CoNfUsEdByLyFe, Gemini Peverell, Stardust of Orion, SelKar, Kathrin J Pearl, RmfD, Magic Dobby, devilchild1000, Kendra Dyhanna (hola amiga! ) Guest, Beezlebubbles, theonethatwrites, garp the fist. **

**Oh blargh. I was supposed to include Michael's POV and Dumbledore's, but this chapter ran away from me, and I didn't want another monster length one. **

"**It felt like someone brushed a curious feather across his brain, and he shuddered briefly at the uncomfortable, unnatural sensation, but then a warm buzz was pouring into his being, his mind sinking into a haze of pleased content. He opened his mouth obediently and drank." –If you can tell me what's going on there, you win one of my mother's warm, chocolate chip cookies, fresh out of the oven. **

**Ravolom is Voldemort, if by some bizarre reason you missed that, lol: If someone can accurately explain the reason behind the name, I'll include a bonus scene in next chapter. ;)**

**LASTLY: Do you guys want a Voldemort POV bit next chapter, his side of what just went down? I don't know if you'd like that, or think of it as re-reading the same chapter…**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Special thanks to all my reviewers! (There's too many of you to list, lol!) Thank you to all my followers! This chapter is dedicated to everyone who's been kind enough to actually _thank _me for posting this. (You never see somebody _thanking_ you for putting up a story.)**

**Since there's so many of you reviewing, I can't fit all my replies into this section anymore without going over a page long. PM me if you have questions, or ask them in your review, and I'll try to respond through chat messages. **

**One last thing: Last chapter, it wasn't the Imperius curse (I was actually surprised how many of you said that, although it's a logical assumption.) It was Voldemort extorting his power over the horcrux link. **

**Misconceptions**

**Chapter 5**

**By: Dreams2Paper11**

"Your magic is blocked," Ravolom said in way of explanation, and he tapped Harry's chest for emphasis. "Something is preventing the flow from your core to the rest of your body."

"What is it?" Harry asked immediately, nearly begging. His heart was pounding like a hummingbird. Ravolom raised a dark eyebrow at his eagerness. "Please, sir," Harry added, blinking sweetly. Respect always earned points with adults.

Ravolom stood, waving his wand through his spindly fingers. The moisture stain from Harry's tears on his shoulder shrank into nonexistence. Harry flushed again at the blatant reminder.

"When self-aimed negative emotions like insecurity and self-hatred build up, the heart—in an emotional sense, mind you, not physical—fails. When the heart fails, the magical core fails also. The two are almost always intertwined. That is why many wizards and witches have to go to St. Mungo's when they suffer from psychological ailments. Their heart weakens and drains the core, which leaves them in a near Squib-like status. With no magic, they are unable to heal themselves properly and must seek professional aid."

"I don't have self-hatred," Harry muttered mutinously, looking at the ground. He chased a leaf around with his foot. It was hard to meet Ravolom's penetrating crimson gaze.

Ravolom exhaled loudly. "Is that the only thing that you absorbed from what I just said?" He asked, annoyed. "And yes you do, by the way. Otherwise you wouldn't have been reduced by a few words to crying on my shoulder like a neonatal."

Harry glared hotly, offended and more than a little bit humiliated. "No! I just… what's a core?"

Ravolom simply looked at him, surprise etched across his face. "Haven't those fools taught you anything?" He snapped, gesturing with a flourish of his hands. Harry opened his mouth to form a counter statement in defense of his family, but paused, thinking. If he did, Ravolom would probably say something that would make him cry again. He shivered, wrapping his thin arms around his chest. The man was so _scary. _He twisted words apart like a vulture tore into a dead carcass, and _enjoyed _it. His effortless grace and charm (well, when he wanted to be) compelled you to listen and nod your head to whatever honey-dipped words poured from his clever lips.

Ravolom noticed his silence and smiled. A bit of frost seemed to hang upon the twisted corners. Didn't this man know how to genuinely smile? A bit of pity gathered in Harry's heart. Didn't he have a family? A home? Weren't those things supposed to make you happy?

"That's right," Ravolom whispered, still smiling that odd smile. "The sooner you realize it, the less it hurts, and the more we can work past it."

_We?_

"To answer your question," Ravolom said, business-like once again. The sudden termination of the tangent jerked Harry out of his roiling thoughts. "A core is where a magical being houses their magic. When a wizard performs a spell, he draws the necessary amount of magic needed from his core. That's why it is so dangerous for wizards or witches to perform spells beyond their capacity. A spell is incredibly difficult to break off when the incantation has already been uttered and is in mid-process of converting the dormant magic to its more usable form. If you are not experienced enough, the spell will take control of your magic and drain it completely, resulting in the loss of magical ability, or, in some cases, death."

Harry narrowed his eyes in contemplation at the ominous warning. "So that's why they say to never, ever, _ever, _try to bring back the dead?"

Ravolom's eyes gleamed in approval. He nodded, and a hesitantly pleased feeling rose in Harry. It was an alien feeling—receiving all this acknowledgement. When he handed his assignments in to his mother for her to grade, she wrote all the little corrections or absent praises in the top margins. She never really sat down and talked it through with him, unless he'd messed up hideously, which was almost never.

"Exactly." Ravolom paused, and then added, "This is important, so remember it." He sounded like such a teacher that Harry unconsciously obeyed, paying close attention. "The core also depends on the body. The more fit you are, the more "pure" your magic is. Now, don't mistake my words to mean that those who are diseased, emaciated, or even obese can't perform magic. They can. Usually, one can't even tell the difference between a sick person's magic and the magic of a healthy person. However, when you grow perceptive enough to sense auras—which won't happen for years, so wipe that smile off your face—you will be able to see how… _oily_, let's say, their magic is. It does not effect the power of their spells, but it can make it harder for them to summon their magic."

As Ravolom talked, the stiffness seemed to fall away from his body. He grew animated, using his hands to demonstrate. His voice gained more inflections, rising and falling in pitch to accommodate the mood. An excited shine entered his bright eyes. He seemed to genuinely enjoy teaching, Harry observed. Harry wondered if the man was a professor for a prestigious magical college somewhere. It would explain his seemingly vast wealth of knowledge.

He went on and on, giving descriptions in great detail, sometimes even using his wand to trace diagrams in the air. Harry's head spun with the influx of information.

"Now, summarize what I just said."

"What?" Startled by the out-of-the-blue question, Harry looked at the impatiently waiting man. "What is this, school?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "Well, how else am I supposed to make sure you understand?"

Harry suppressed a sigh, and then recited, "Cores are where a wizard keeps his magic—"

"Not just wizards and witches," Ravolom interrupted Harry. "Every magical being has a core."

Harry ground his teeth. Ravolom looked smug. "Right… cores are where _all magical beings _keep their magic… and, um, the core depends on the mental health… and physical fitness can also affect the magic's… uh… clarity… and _never try to bring back the dead!_" He finished brightly, confident in the one piece of knowledge he possessed before Ravolom's lecture.

"Well, you sound like a bumbling idiot when you speak, but I suppose you've got the gist of it."

Harry glowered at the man's superior smirk.

"How does all this affect my magic?" He asked, trying to reign in the conversation. He was growing sleepy. The headache potion's effect was starting to wane. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes.

"Your magic is blocked, as I said earlier, by feelings of self-hatred, and the flow channel between your core and your mind is clogged because you aren't eating enough and verging on the edge of anemic."

How could Ravolom say these things as casually as speaking about the weather?

"So all I have to do is eat better?" He asked, slightly subdued for several reasons. All these years, he hadn't done accidental magic just because he wasn't eating enough? And everything Ravolom said, he said it with finesse and self-assuredness, as if he'd written a book on the topic. Frankly, Harry felt stupid in comparison… maybe he _was_ a bumbling idiot and he was just too dumb to realize it…

"That's only a small part of it," Ravolom corrected. "I told you, people suffering from severe psychological problems typically attend St. Mungo's for mind therapy by a skilled Legilimens."

Harry's face, already pale, blanched."You mean they **_willingly _**undergo that_… _that torture!" He took an instinctual step back, thinking of the excruciating pain… he felt sick to his stomach. A whimper was lodged in his chest cavity.

Ravolom cocked his head, taking a step forward for every one that Harry took away. "It doesn't always hurt, you know," He purred softly, eyes unnaturally bright. They were like two red shining marbles. Their eerie focus was unsettling.

"I'll take your word for it," Harry growled, backing up slowly.

"It hurt," Ravolom said confidently, continuing as if Harry had never spoken, "because you were trying to drive me out. Your mind only reacted naturally to the invasion. But if you were to… _allow_ me in… I could reach your mind and soothe away the pain…" His voice turned so terribly kind again, so wonderfully wrong; the same tone that he'd used to bring Harry to tears. The tender shimmer in his irises was like a knife—harmless when laid flat, but extremely dangerous when turned on its sharp edge. "Wouldn't you like that, Harry? Not to feel this hurt that stabs your heart more and more every day?"

Of course he didn't want to feel this way. He'd give almost anything to _not _feel this way. But...

"No," he said flatly, and he turned to walk away.

A viselike grip squeezed his bicep. Harry hadn't noticed it before, but the hand was surprisingly cooler than the average temperature. He jerked against the hold, starting to panic. The ruthless hand pulled him back easily and turned him around, and he was suddenly closer to the burning red orbs than he ever wanted to be.

"One trial," Ravolom whispered, appearing sincere. "One trial and if you don't like it, then you can walk away, no strings attached, no debts, _nothing. _Just let. Me. Try." The words turned sharp and piercing at the end. Harry felt like a small kid being disciplined by his parents.

"Let go of me!"

The eyes narrowed fractionally. "_One trial, Harry… surely it can't be that bad…" _Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then that wave of calm tranquility, of wonderful _content, _washed over him, and he suddenly couldn't think clearly. Thoughts jumbled together in his head. Everything had gained a distant, surreal blur. Harry blinked, struggling to stay upright. His legs felt like jell-o.

"_One… trial…" _The soft, nudging whisper echoed gently in his head, sounding faintly amused. Harry's tongue worked restlessly in his mouth.

"I—I don't…" he heard himself say distantly. Everything was confusing. Right had suddenly become wrong, white had darkened to black, up had switched with down…

He was suffocating in the warm cocoon that was being carefully wound around him.

His leg twitched, then unsteadily moved away. He stumbled and fell. The impact jarred him out of his dazed state, and he gasped. Clarity rushed back to him like a flood of icy water, chasing away the last shreds of complacent warmth.

Harry got up and ran.

Or, that is, he _would've _if Ravolom hadn't apparated in his path—_again_.

"Harry," he laughed, wrapping a tight arm around his small shoulders to immobilize him. "You really are too dramatic." He spoke smoothly, sounding nothing more than highly entertained, but… but his eyes were ever so slightly crinkled at the ends in annoyance.

Harry would never doubt that old expression "eyes are the windows to the soul" again.

Harry didn't know what to say. This man was so unbelievably dangerous… he didn't stand a chance! _What to do? What to do?_

"Here." A sharp snap of Ravolom's pale fingers, and then a weighty Galleon was resting between his lightly clenched fingertips. The coin's shade was a bit off color, not even really that noticeable unless you looked closely. He pressed it into Harry's numb palm.

"Use this to communicate with me. If you change your mind in the near future, you simply need hold it and chant, _'Linkus Summone.'_ Say it."

"_Linkus Summone,_" Harry repeated, obeying more out of surprise than anything else. The coin glowed like the sun briefly, going super-nova hot in his hands. He would've dropped it if it hadn't dimmed and cooled a split second later.

"Good. I'd advise you to use it, Mr. Potter, if you ever wish to step out of your brother's ridiculously large shadow," Ravolom spoke urgently as he plucked the coin out of Harry's hand and tucked it into the front pocket of the boy's slacks. "And I'm afraid I must take my leave now…"

"Wait—what?"

But, as abrupt as his goodbye, Ravolom had already turned on his heel and apparated away with a crisp snap.

**.**

**.**

Harry did not slow down until he could distantly see the rich green lawns between the gaps in the tree trunks. His breath came in short, fearful pants. He'd begun to shake a few minutes ago when the full impact of what he'd been through hit him over the head like a bag of bricks.

He was not too childish to simply think it had been a dream (or would it be more apt to say it was a nightmare?) He just didn't know. Ravolom's moods had swung like a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth… he was so unpredictable. Had he done that on purpose? To bar Harry from discovering what his true personality was like?

In fact… how much of what he'd said or done had been genuine? There'd been moments when he'd been so caring, so _understanding, _and… well, he'd let Harry cry on his shoulder and rubbed his back as he sobbed. (He winced at the thought. He hoped to Merlin the man wouldn't remember that particular event in the years to come. He _hated _crying with a burning passion, but it felt like he did it so much, it was exhausting.)

There'd also been times, however, when his personality had been the flipside. He'd been brutal, ruthless, merciless, and honestly seemed to _enjoy _his pain. He shuddered, wrapping his arms around his chest as he trudged along.

Which Ravolom had been real?

Harry jumped as a twig snapped abruptly. It felt like bright eyes were watching him from the cover of darkness, eagerly awaiting a chance to pounce…

Was that soft thrumming sound the noise of giant wings beating through the air?

…The woods did not feel safe anymore.

Harry quickened his pace, his heart hammering, lithely jumping over fallen logs and ducking past gnarled twigs that stretched into his path. He broke through the fringe of the woods with an audible sigh of relief. The ground beneath his feet switched from the springy, moist forest floor, littered with the decomposed remains of last year's fallen leaves, to a thick layer of springy grass, wet with late night dew. He almost slipped, just managing to regain his balance as he pounded across the lawns. The night air had grown considerably cooler while he was talking with Ravolom, and he shuddered from a combination of chills and fear. He shut his eyes as the echo of Ravolom's mockingly sympathetic voice surged in his ears, whispering, laughing, threate—

For the third time that night, he collided with someone.

He stumbled backwards, holding his head, wincing. His eyes cracked open as he craned his head upwards, his heart skipping a beat as he thought it just might be Ravolom, coming back to finish what he'd started…

But it was Professor Dumbledore who steadied him with a wrinkled hand.

**.**

**Dumbledore**

**.**

Sirius Black was quite the affably chatty man.

Dumbledore had passed the "fashionably late" (or as he so claimed) man on his way out of the Potter mansion. Black had hailed him over, and really, he couldn't say no to him. He knew he was seen as a grandfatherly figure by many of the people attending the annual party tonight. So he'd obliged to engage the mischievous man in conversation. What many people didn't know was that under the incorrigible prankster layer, Sirius was actually quite the intelligent man. He could provide deep insights (when he felt like it) and was usually a reliably steady judge of character. Dumbledore valued the man's soaring enthusiasm and willingness to look at the bright sides of life, but still possess the strength to deal with the darker elements.

He was a fitting Godfather for young Harry.

That thought had jolted him out of his musings and he had politely ended his exchange with the energetic Head of The Most Noble House of Black and set off once more, still following the by-now very faint aura trail that Harry had left behind in his wake.

He realized with a start that he had spent nearly twenty minutes talking with Sirius when he cast a _Tempus _charm and found it to already be eleven o'clock p.m.

Harry had gone straight into the old, vast forest that bordered the Potter grounds, and Dumbledore frowned slightly when he remembered that the Potter wards only extended so far into the woods; perhaps a little bit past its heart. Such an ancient forest was sure to have ancient creatures as well… and not all of them benevolent…

He should know, after all. He was Headmaster of a castle that was enclosed by a forest teeming with magical life, and the majority of the magical life was extremely dangerous. It was called _Forbidden_ Forest for a reason.

Well, this may not have been Forbidden Forest, but it was still old.

Dumbledore unwrapped a lemon drop as he walked, popping the hard candy into his mouth and holding it in the pouch of one cheek. He sucked absently as his formidable mind drifted back to earlier that night. He couldn't believe young Harry had refused a lemon drop. Michael had been enthusiastic to grab one. Maybe Harry didn't like sour things? Dumbledore liked the citrus-y flavor that the candy exuded. For some reason, he found that it helped him to focus. The bowl of lemon drops on his desk back at Hogwarts was also laced with calming potions. These helped him to stay calm and patient, enduring throughout the hail of owls that he usually received from Cornelius Fudge. Beside, he always offered them to parents when they came in for conferences, and that in itself reduced a lot of the yelling that would have undoubtedly ensued if not for the little candies.

Dumbledore saddened as he realized something… not many people took his offered lemon drops, now that he thought about it.

Hmm.

So wrapped up in his thoughts about the delightful candy, he did not notice the figure speeding across the grounds until he ran smack into it. Within a nanosecond, his magic uncoiled and stretched out a tendril, feeling for any presence of a threat. His gnarled hand automatically slipped inside his pocket, gripping the Elder Wand. A particularly spectacular jinx poised itself on the tip of his tongue.

It was Harry.

Feeling slightly ashamed that war had trained his reflexes to such automatic responses, he flashed out a surprisingly speedy hand to steady the lad before he toppled over. He smiled warmly, his light-blue eyes alight with their usual twinkle.

"Hello, m'boy! What's got you in such a rush?" He asked brightly, but then a second later, his assessing eyes slid over the young child's slim frame. He did not like what his eyes told him.

Harry's dark nest of hair was even more wild than usual. Bits of leaves were firmly knotted within the jet-black strands. His face was smudged slightly with dirt. His clothes were rumpled, grass stains on his knees and elbows. His face, under the filth, was near white in color.

He was also shaking like a leaf in a gale.

"Harry?"

The second calling of his name seemed to jerk the child out of his thoughts, because he blinked several times, clearing the haunted fog from his stunning irises.

"P-Professor-Mr. Dumbledore?"

"Just Dumbledore will do," Dumbledore reminded gently, holding back an amused laugh at the boy's insistence upon keeping them on a formal-name-basis. His deep, crackly voice added, with a hint of mirth, "You aren't in Hogwarts just yet."

A flash of hurt bolted across Harry's expressive features—no doubt remembering _earlier_—before he locked his emotions down and formed a straight face. Dumbledore was slightly impressed. With training, Harry could become an experienced Occlumens.

"What can _I_ help _you_ with, _sir?"_ The '_because you obviously can't help me' _went unspoken. Harry was careful to keep his voice controlled and monotonic, barely betraying a flicker of pain.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Dumbledore enquired, pulling out his wand. His sharp eyes noted Harry's tiny flinch at the sight of the long stick. Memories swirled in the glass-green eyes —he was sorely temped to risk a quick, harmless peek into the child's mind, but that would be morally unethical.

The trembling started once again.

Now more than a little bit concerned, Dumbledore waved his wand to remove the dirt from the child's skin, straighten out his clothing, and unravel the knots in the black mop atop his head.

"Harry, what's happened?"

Magic of some kind swirled lazily around the lad. Dumbledore tried to place it, but the lingering trace of the magical forest's signature was the more dominant presence. It cloaked the other aura trail effectively enough to the point that Dumbledore could only sense coolness and the fresh scent of a May night.

"Nothing, sir… I simply tripped," Harry said, smiling weakly as though mocking his own clumsiness. "Fell on the ground pretty hard, I suppose. I'm fine."

Dumbledore silently surveyed the boy standing awkwardly in front of him, twisting his fabulous watch around his wrist. A nervous habit, perhaps? But as soon as Dumbledore realized this, Harry seemed to also. He stopped twisting the device and let his arm hang limply by his side.

"Is there anything else you wanted, or may I go inside? I'm slightly cold," Harry asked, rubbing his bare upper arms. Honestly, what was the boy thinking? Dressed only in a thin dress shirt and slacks? He could catch one of the nasty illnesses flying around!

"Yes, I was hoping to speak to you about earlier," Dumbledore said gently, "I understand you were, regrettably, quite hurt by my refusal."

There it was again; another crack in Harry's composure that he struggled to seal. "Oh. Okay."

"Come, child… walk with me…" Dumbledore gently guided Harry back into the house, feeling Harry's muscles quiver slightly under his shirt. Harry faltered as he stepped over the threshold. His furtive eyes flicked from side to side, scanning for any presences, even while he pulled off his shoes and set them by the door.

"I believe I am one of the last guests still here," Dumbledore reassured him, gliding down the hallway with surprising grace. Harry followed after a second. His footsteps, now freed from the shoes, were so light and quick. Dumbledore's heart panged at the irony—with his dark head of hair and the strange silence that muted the sound of his movements, Harry really was like a shadow.

Dumbledore sailed into the kitchen and had a kettle of water boiling with a flick of his wand. He settled himself into the padded kitchen chair, grunting as he let himself relax. The kettle, sugar, and cream clinked gently in the background as they hustled around each other.

"I must admit," He said jokingly, giving a small theatric groan, "I am quite jealous of your wonderfully comfortable kitchen chairs. My office one is rather stiff."

Harry nodded shyly, not meeting his eyes. Instead, he seemed captivated by the magic going on at the counter. The depressed, hungry longing in his eyes gave Dumbledore a funny feeling in his stomach. As a former teacher, he still hated watching a student fail—it made him feel guilty, like he could have prevented it. Unfortunately, not many people nowadays were willing to work to succeed. Harry was one of the rare few that fit into the small category of those who probably would.

If only he had access to his magic. Perhaps, when he wasn't busy, Dumbledore could look into the strange matter with more intensity.

Harry bit his lower lip in thought, finally tearing his eyes away from the little display of magic, focusing them on his small, interlaced fingers. Dumbledore's smile faded. Gears clicked into place in his brain and began to whir, spitting out plans to coax the boy out of his self-imposed shell.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

"Tea?" He offered, as the pot soared over to where he sat and poured out a steaming stream into a conjured cup for himself. The mug was dark purple with vibrant orange, lime green, and light blue spots. He thought the colors clashed well together.

Harry's pink tongue dotted at the corner of his lips, and his brow twitched in a grimace, as though recalling something disgusting.

"Yes please," he said softly, clasping his little pale hands in his lap. Dumbledore summoned another mug from the dish pantry and set it in front of the boy, filling it to the brim with the scalding drink.

"Now," he said, not even bothering to hide a heavy sigh. "I'm sure you have questions."

Harry gnawed his lip harder. The shields were being torn down, crumbling to dust, but Dumbledore admired the way that he struggled to build up the pieces even as they rained down all around him. Dumbledore graciously waited for his reply, sipping quietly at his hot tea. The lemon drop held in his cheek lent an interesting hint of citrus to the drink.

"Yes," Harry finally managed to whisper, hurriedly taking a big gulp. Dumbledore's eyes focused on the child immediately, waiting for him to recoil from a burnt tongue.

It was strange. Harry gave no bodily hint of experiencing pain. Instead, he channeled it into his eyes. The agony swirled in the green irises, like how a fistful of dirt diffuses when thrown into water. Its effect made the child's eyes like an open book; so expressive and vulnerable. Dumbledore glanced quickly at the boy's hands, still tightly clinging to the mug, even though the porcelain must be blistering against his tender skin.

More than a little bit bothered, he quickly leaned over and gently peeled Harry's fingers from the cup, turning them over. The fleshy pads of his little fingertips and palms were already pink, tinged red. Dumbledore soothed the irritated skin with a quick spell. He honestly wasn't the best at healing, but he considered himself passable.

"Don't hold your mug so tightly," he admonished softly, setting Harry's limp hands on the wooden table's cool surface. "You could burn your skin."

Harry nodded mutely, not even twitching his hands. It looked, for all appearances, that they were bolted to the table by invisible chains.

Dumbledore leaned back once more, resting his elbows on the edges of the table. He interlocked his fingers, focused his light-blue eyes on Harry's face.

"You are familiar with, I'm sure, the story of what happened that Halloween night when you and your brother were two years old," he began, mentally recording Harry's reactions.

"Yes sir," Harry replied tonelessly. His hands twitched restlessly.

"You know that _Voldemort_"_—_he watched raptly here for a flinch, but, shockingly, there was none—"only experienced a _setback_ because of your brother—a wondrous achievement, indeed, but, sadly, not a perennial one—and has recently begun to stir some months ago."

"Yes sir," Harry repeated dully. Dumbledore wondered vaguely to himself if Harry had ever received this talk from someone else.

"He will target Michael when he regains his strength. Michael will need extensive lessons even before he enters Hogwarts so that he may _begin _to learn how to properly defend himself." Dumbledore stopped, then added, "You wouldn't want Michael to get hurt, would you?"

Harry shifted, his fingers jerkily slipping around his mug once again. He sipped, much more slowly this time, barely drawing in any of the tea.

"Of course not," he said, when he'd set the mug back down on the table. The quiet _clink _it produced seemed like the sharp crash of thunder in the silence. "He _is_ my twin."

"I am glad to hear it." Harry's lack of enthusiasm in his reply worried Dumbledore. Although, he supposed it just might be Harry's nature. In fact, the only time Dumbledore had ever seen the boy look… well… excited about something…

…was when he'd asked for lessons…

"My dear boy, you are an intelligent child. I can tell just by looking at you," Dumbledore started again, settling on flattery. "My decline to teaching you has nothing to do with your potential power, or character, or—"

"It's just that I'm not Michael," Harry said calmly. He tipped his head back and drained the rest of his tea. "I know. I understand."

"You do, do you?" Dumbledore asked, caught off guard, as Harry got up and put his empty cup in the sink. He didn't like the way Harry had phrased it, but…

"Of course. Michael needs the training more than I." The boy turned on his heel, looking at him through his raven-black bangs. A small smile—forced around the edges?—brightened his face.

_He should really smile more_, Dumbledore thought. _It makes him look like more of a young boy and less like a jaded old man. _

"Thank you for talking with me. I feel much better," Harry spoke in a completely neutral tone of voice. It contrasted sharply with his wide smile. Dumbledore managed to catch a glimpse of the child's eyes—they were cold and lifeless—before Harry slipped out of the room.

Abandoned to his thoughts, Dumbledore leaned back sighing swallowing the rest of his tea. He reminded himself that this was a natural reaction—he couldn't expect the child to be daisies and sunshine so quickly afterwards the rejection, after all.

_And children can hold quite a grudge. _

This musing dissatisfied him further.

**.**

**Michael**

**.**

He was lounging on his bed, a wizard comic book in his hands, when he heard the quiet slapping noise of bare feet on wooden floors. He leapt up immediately, casting aside the thin book, and raced to the door, yanking it open.

Harry froze, turning to look him. The light that spilled from the candle in Michael's room reflected in his luminous green eyes. The dark-haired boy raised an eyebrow. "Hello Michael."

"Hey," he said hesitantly, looking at his twin's impassive expression and slightly rigid posture. Yep, Harry was definitely upset over something. It wasn't too hard to guess what. Michael had overhead a group of old, gossipy witches gushing about it during the party—_it_ being Harry's attempt to request lessons. At first he'd been kinda annoyed—Harry had made a scene! Geez!

But then, as he ruminated over it… he felt kind of felt bad for his twin. He must have been so humiliated. And yeah, he pulled a ton of pranks (publicly) on his quiet twin, but Harry never complained about it! And Michael never embarrassed him _that_ much…

"Come here," he said, grabbing his brother's arm and pulling him inside. Harry dug his heels into the ground, gritting his teeth when Michael impatiently tugged harder and succeeded in momentarily unbalancing him.

"What?" He hissed, wrenching his arm out of Michael's hold. Michael shut the door behind them with his foot, twisting the lock. Harry rolled his eyes behind his sleek, wire-rimmed glasses and sat on his bed, purposefully looking away.

"Listen, I…" Now that he had his brother here, he suddenly found himself fumbling for words. Harry waited impatiently, his arms crossed. He coughed lightly into his palm, blushing.

_I never thought about how… _**_awkward_**_ we are now…_

The more he reflected on it, the more he realized it to be true. He couldn't remember the last time he played a game with his brother, or pulled pranks _with_ him (come to think of it, Harry had always been the more mischievous out of the two… when had that changed?), or even sat and simply talked with him, more than a couple of plain sentences exchanged in passing.

…When had his twin become a stranger?

Michael turned and sat down heavily in his desk chair, feeling very confused.

"What's your favorite color?" He asked suddenly, glancing up shortly at his brother. Harry arched an eyebrow. It made him look so much older than he really was.

"Does it matter?"

"Harry, please." The soft 'please' seemed to catch Harry's attention effectively. Michael lowered his eyes, slightly grumpy. He hated saying that word. He usually never needed to. Whatever he wanted, he got, with a snap of his fingers. "It's gold, right? I thought it was gold." Michael remembered how when they were very small, Harry would stubbornly insist upon only wearing clothes that possessed at least a little bit of the color.

Harry's penetrating eyes slid away from him, wandering disinterestedly around the room.

"Green. It's green."

Michael jolted in surprise. Had he honestly just gotten that simple question wrong? That was… sad… that was _beyond _sad. He struggled to recover, pulling a look of outrage over his face.

"What? The color of the _snakes?"_ He spat, thinking of their father's many school stories. The slimy Slytherins. Their house colors were green and silver, right?

Harry glared at him defiantly. A small, tiny flicker of something—something so much fouler than petty annoyance—glowed briefly in those frighteningly intelligent eyes.

"Is that a problem?"

"Well… well yeah! What's wrong with gold?" Did his voice sound desperate? "You love gold! Come on, Harry!" He was relentlessly pursuing a stupid subject, he knew, but still…

He'd gotten that question wrong….

He hated getting things wrong. People always told him that he got things _right_. Everything he did was received by a pat on the back and a warm, proud smile. He was not used to getting things incorrect. It just… blech. It rubbed him the wrong way.

"You aren't right all the time!" Harry hissed venomously, his voice barely controlled. Michael flinched as if he'd been slapped, wondering if Harry could read minds. "You aren't perfect! You're human, _just like the rest of us! Get over it!"_

"No!" Michael hurled back at him, leaping to his feet. The chair skittered across the floor, rattling loudly as his accidental magic reacted. Harry's furious gaze flicked to it momentarily. "Don't you get it? I can't! I can't get things wrong!"

"Why?" Harry said darkly. His pale fists were clenched, trembling. "Because you're perfect? Because you're _so_ above the rest of us poor, pathetic, _lowly—_"

"No, that's not it at all!"

"Then _why_?" Harry moved closer, gesturing wildly at the shaking chair. "Do you see that? You can do these things! You have accidental magic, like _normal _people! You're the one who's going to get lessons from the most powerful wizard alive!" His expression shuddered, a fleeting shadow of pure desperation stealing over his features. "Don't you see? I _want_ it! I _want_ magic more than anything!"

Michael realized his jaw was hanging and shut it with a sharp click.

"But you get it instead. Because you're _perfect. _Why?"

"Because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived!" Michael shouted, finally regaining his wits. "I can't get things wrong! I'm not _allowed_ to!" The words reverberated around the walls of the room, supported by ringing silence. Harry looked at him in veiled disgust.

How could a simple question have turned into this?

"I can't believe you." Harry loomed over him, even though Michael was taller. "_I honestly can't believe you."_ He took a step forward. "You have _everything. _How can you ever be so ungrateful?"

"I never said I wasn't grateful!" Michael snapped defensively, his anger flaring. Like he was gonna let his younger twin boss him around! "I said that—I just didn't know your favorite color changed, okay? And that surprised me, 'cause I thought it was gold, and then I felt like I didn't know anything about you—" he laughed hollowly, "—which is ridiculous, because, I mean, we're _twins_…"

"_You_ _don't_," Harry said darkly.

He pushed his way past him and slammed the door shut.

**.**

**Bonus Scene**

**.**

Voldemort was sweeping through the corridors of Malfoy Manor, planning on calling a meeting with his Death Eaters, when he felt something float across his mind-something that wasn't his.

He froze, reaching up to place his fingers gently on his temples, focusing his power. He opened a channel in his mind, searching for that thick thread that led from his end to Harry. He found it quickly. The moment he touched the link, emotions rippled across the gap, bleeding into his consciousness.

_Anger._

_Disbelief. _

_Bitterness._

_Loneliness. _

Voldemort gently prodded, fingering the delicate string, coaxing the bond to strengthen. A second later, thoughts, accompanied by flittering images, flooded the link, flashing across the backs of Voldemort's eyelids. He saw a flash of Dumbledore's aged face-deep resentment accompanied the picture, which pleased Voldemort immensely-and next, a snapshot of the other twin, the unimportant one, hand in hand with a feeling of disbelief and bitterness-and lastly, a lingering flash of Voldemort's own face. Emotions like uncertainty and wariness-but not hatred, so that was okay-swirled in the wake of his image.

Voldemort withdrew slightly, smirking when he felt the piece of his soul buried deeply in the child's own core reach out, unconsciously attempting to call him back.

_Not yet, Little Horcrux. I'm afraid I have plans to set in motion. _

_But don't worry._

_It won't be much longer...**  
**_

**.**

**.**

**So my interpretation of Michael is that he's spoiled, yeah, but not a complete jerk. He's not used to being contradicted. He's used to praise and adoration. He doesn't prance around the house, throwing out orders left and right, though. He's immature and spoiled, not a bully who exits to ruin Harry's life. Remember: I'm writing them as having been quite close when they were very young.**

**Also: Ravolom wasn't necessarily lying when he gave the whole magic explanation. All that he said was true: it's just not what's affecting Harry. (He's a sneaky little wizard, haha.) **

**Next Chapter: We're going to Diagon Alley for some wand shopping. ;) (Coldblue, don't worry about it. I got a plan. )**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you everyone for all the reviews. Finals are finally over, so I can actually breathe easy again. -_- I passed all of them, so I'm pretty happy right now. :D I felt the need to respond to one reviewer, who said in one part of their review: **

**_Guest: _**_You make less mistakes than most wrong bwl writers, but there are still some of those glaring things I hate. Almost makes me want to write a story in the genre just to show how it's done…_

**Well, the next time you feel like telling me that, could you also include some of the "glaring" things" you hate? I really want people to like this story, and I've tried to avoid most of the clichés that accompany this genre (I'm not perfect, however, so yes, some do slip through) so its kind of insulting when you say that about something that I've put a lot of time and effort into. **

**And by all means, write the story. I'd love to read it. **

**LASTLY: I am actually not British, so if some of you lovely British people out there (I'm in love with people with British accents) could give me some lingo information, that would be awesome.**

**Misconceptions**

**Chapter 6**

**By: Dreams2Paper11**

The next morning at breakfast, James barreled into the room, a stylish crimson and gold bag held in one hand. He plopped it on the table (nearly knocking Harry's plate onto the ground in the process) and fell into his chair.

"Pass me some eggs, Lils, I'm starving." He poured himself a cup of iced pumpkin juice as Lily carried the warm pan to where he sat, scraping a good-sized portion onto his plate. She frowned at him, not even looking as she plucked four pieces of thick bacon from the nearby serving dish and laid them on the side of his eggs.

"You know I don't like you working late hours, darling," she said, spreading marmalade to all four corners of a piece of toast and setting it next to his bacon. James picked up a curved strip and used it as a spoon to scoop up his eggs, popping the bite in his mouth and winking roguishly. The tired bags under his eyes did nothing to diminish his blinding smile.

"Don't worry 'bout it, Lils. As long as You-Know-Who is active, I won't stop until my kid is safe." He leaned over to affectionately muss up Michael's hair, his fingers sinking in the boy's fluffy brown strands.

From where he sat, Harry averted his eyes uncomfortably, his mind flashing back to yesterday night, remembering the feeling of cool, capable fingers combing through his messy hair. He set down his glass, feeling slightly sick.

"More eggs, Harry?" Lily asked, bringing the pan over to him. "You could use a little protein; you look pale."

Harry began to shake his head, but then he remembered Ravolom's advice and nodded.

"I'll never understand you and your Muggle science," James complained as Lily scooped eggs onto Harry's plate, his voice half-muffled by the mouthful of food he was currently chewing. "These protee-ans make no sense to me."

"Protein, dear," Lily corrected, smirking as she began to clear the table. James scowled good-naturedly.

Due to Lily's Muggleborn status, Harry and Michael had been brought up with homeschooling that dabbled in both Magical and Muggle worlds. She taught them most of the branches of science, made them do math homework daily, and gave them books (again, both Muggle and Magical) to read and complete reports on. Harry's favorite subject was a tie between chemistry and history. He liked hearing about how Muggles flourished, even though they had no magic.

It comforted him, knowing that one could still _live _without that beautiful gift.

_But I won't have to much longer, _he thought, determinedly grabbing the pitcher of orange juice and re-filling his cup. He'd almost made the mistake of grabbing two pieces of bacon earlier but had stopped himself. Bacon had fat, right? Fat wasn't good for the body.

But the bacon smelled really, _really _good, so he settled for one piece instead.

"What's the bag for, Dad?" Michael asked, reaching across the table to pick it up. He shook it experimentally, listening to the merry jingle that rattled inside. James grinned.

"Oh, your mother and I have decided that we're going to Diagon Ally—"

Michael's eyes widened in delight.

"—to buy you some Celestina Warbeck underwear as an early birthday present—"

"DAD!"

"_James!"_

James doubled over in laughter, gesturing helplessly. "Sorry—sorry, couldn't help it!"

Michael frowned. "You _better_ be kidding! That was what _I_ was going to give to _you_ for your birthday!" James blinked owlishly at him, struck dumb, before he exploded into an even bigger fit than before, curling, almost sweeping his cutlery off the table. Lily hid her mouth with her dainty hand, laughing heartily, her dazzling smile rivaling the glow of her red hair that shone in the light that poured in from the window.

Harry swallowed the last forkful of eggs and pushed his plate to the side. He grabbed the bag, pulling the silk drawstrings and peering in. An extendable charm had obviously been placed on it. It was like looking through a small hole into a yawning black cavern with a floor so far away that the piles of gold seemed like speckles of glittering dust.

"Why are we going to Diagon Alley, dad?" Harry asked quietly, reaching into the bag and pulling out one of the fat gold coins. The Galleon blazed in the intense morning light.

"Well," James said, looking slightly uncomfortable. He paused to wipe his mouth with his napkin before continuing. Lily shot him a warning look and quietly began to wash the dishes in the kitchen. "Since… uh… Michael is getting lessons… we figured it was time to get him a wand, that way Dumbledore can immediately start training him."

It took all of Harry's willpower not to stand up and storm out of the house.

_Don't be immature. Don't be immature. _

"Oh," he said stiffly. His crushing grip on his knees bleached his knuckles. "Okay." No matter how much he tried, however, he couldn't stop the tremulous way that his voice croaked from his mouth. "Will I be staying with Siri and Remy, then?"

Lily took one look at her son's face, struggling to remain composed, and crumbled. "Oh sweetie, of course you don't have to," she called from the kitchen, peeking through the doorway, "You can come if you want! I'll… I'll take you to Fortescue's for an ice cream while Michael gets his wand."

Harry saw her eyes—so much like his, and that kind of hurt—flick towards Michael as she spoke, however, and knew she really didn't want to miss watching her son receive his wand. His gaze fell to his clenched fists.

"Actually, can I go to Flourish and Blott's while you guys shop? There are some books that I'd like to read."

An extemporaneous lie, of course, but it was the best he could come up with. His pride didn't want him to tag along like a lost puppy after his brother and watch his twin get a wand, but his inner child was begging him to go, just to see all the magical shops and the wonderful items inside.

Lily turned off the faucet, wiping her hands on the towel as she leaned against the doorway. "Hmm… we could give you some gold to buy a few books, I suppose… Promise me that after an hour in the bookstore, you'll meet up with us at Fortescue's?"

"Promise."

A few years ago, he would have felt wounded that she didn't even ask Siri and Remy to accompany him, especially in such dangerous times, but he reasoned that the sunny, warm afternoon had dulled her sense of danger.

James conjured a small black drawstring bag and threw in fistfuls of Galleons, before he pulled it shut tightly and tossed it to him. "That's been equipped with anti-theft and bottomless charms, but you should still keep it out of sight." His features darkened momentarily. "Never know what kind of people are up and about in this day and age."

The family cleaned up the last of the breakfast dishes and gathered in the living room, next to the huge, neatly swept fireplace. Lily stooped to fasten Michael's thin summer cloak under his chin, licking her thumb and pushing his brown hair to the side. Michael wrinkled his brow in disgust.

"Aw mom!"

"Oh hush, there's a smudge on your face."

Harry hid a smirk. Michael glanced over at him and scowled upon seeing his restrained amusement.

"Don't laugh, Harry!" He snapped irritably, turning his eyes away, no doubt feeling awkward as he remembered their argument. Harry shrugged easily, allowing his smirk to shine through before he dragged it under his impassive mask.

"Don't worry, I'd never laugh at you," He said with false seriousness. Michael rolled his dark brown eyes and looked at him incredulously.

"Oh Really?"

"Promise!" Harry gave a lazy, slightly mocking wave. He knew he was being cheeky, but after last night… the last thing he wanted to be towards his twin was _nice. _Michael, knowing the lack of sincerity in his reply, simply walked over to his father, who was currently removing the lid of the jar of Floo powder. James grabbed a fistful and tossed it into the fire.

The cheerfully crackling flames suddenly roared, almost spilling out of the chimney, and turned a brilliant shade of bright emerald green that nearly matched Harry' eyes.

"Diagon Alley!" James shouted, and he stepped in the flames. They swallowed him completely and he disappeared. Then Michael went, and then Lily very quickly, nearly shadowing him so that she could be sure he landed at the right fireplace.

With the absence of the three other people, the house was oddly quiet and peaceful. Great slabs of morning sunlight slanted through the large living room window, illuminating thousands of dust motes that swirled languidly through the air. The light tinged the ends of Harry's hair golden.

Briefly, he contemplated not even going; just grabbing a book and sitting down in one of the comfy armchairs, enjoying the peace and quiet of his home, but he knew that his mum and dad weren't so neglectful that they wouldn't notice he hadn't followed them.

Sighing, he readjusted the clasp of his dark red cloak, pinning it more securely, and toggled his glasses, pushing them firmly up the bridge of his nose. He dug his hand into the Floo jar. The tiny grains were like silky sand grains. He sifted it through his fingers slowly before his lifted out a sizable handful. He threw it in the fire, shouted, "DIAGON ALLEY!" and stepped into the writhing flames. They flared around his vision, tickling his skin with an oddly cool sensation, and then he was spinning…

He pitched forward suddenly and stumbled as his feet hit solid ground, just managing to refrain from falling over.

"Ah, there you are Harry! I thought something had happened for a second…" He looked up, fixing his glasses, which were slightly askew on his face, and smoothed his wild hair as much as he could. Lily patted the smatterings of ash from his shoulders and off his face.

"Got your bag? Glasses… check… limbs… check…"

Harry smiled hesitantly as his mum flittered around him, soaking in the attention. He secretly craved these rare moments when his parents fussed over him. Was this how Michael felt every second? When she was finished, Lily straightened, tossing her red wave of hair over her slim shoulder as they exited the store, emerging into bright sunlight.

"All right, go have fun. Remember, Fortescue's in an hour!"

With that, Harry watched her leave with rest of his family, heading down the busy cobblestone streets. People parted to give them room, and it only took three seconds for someone to shout, "It's the Boy-Who-Lived!" Immediately, they were swamped, and flashes from someone's camera started going off like lightning strikes. Witches and wizards alike rushed out of surrounding shops, joining the crowd. The deafening roar of excitement swelled, and Harry was quick to head down the street, keeping his head ducked like normal.

Nobody noticed him.

**.**

**.**

He should really come to Diagon Alley, more often.

He was settled comfortably in a large, cushy armchair, a thick book propped open in his lap. Flourish and Blotts had an annex in the back where they kept a medium-sized fireplace, a round footstool with clawed feet for holding books, and three armchairs, all completely identical, positioned around the fire. The fireplace was swept out and clean; no fire blazed in the grates since it _was_ early summer, after all.

Flourish and Blotts had been completely empty when Harry had strolled in; even the clerk had fled the store to catch a glimpse of the renowned BWL. For once, though, Harry didn't care. It meant he got to read in peace, and that was greatly appreciated.

Harry flipped a page in the book, leisurely skimming the paragraphs.

_The famed difference between Light and Dark Magic has existed for eons and sparked many battles, even full-scale wars. This is mainly due to the fact that many stereotypes have enfolded both areas of energy. Light wizards are often the symbol of good and purity, while Dark seems to signify evil and malign. Are these suspicions founded on a solid basis of evidence? Research and numerous case-in-points throughout the years have revealed the truth. _

Harry frowned, leading his eyes with a forefinger as he read. While the paragraph was written with excellent eloquence and seemed to provide a good thesis, Harry wasn't too sure about the whether or not the contents were true.

He was raised a Light wizard. He _was_ a Light wizard. Heck, he should be agreeing with every word that spewed from the book's figurative mouth.

But something tickled in the back of his mind; an actual sensation so real that he twisted in his seat, wondering if someone stood behind him. The next second, a driving impulse to re-read the passage hit him like the Hogwarts Train, and he stooped over the tome once more, scanning the old page. He ran its words through his head, reading slowly and with a considering conscious.

_It's… so prejudiced…?_

He found the phrases used and the blatant favoritism displayed to be slightly unsettling, and this fact unsettled him further.

He sat back, resting the book in his lap, looking up at the wooden ceiling held up by crisscrossing planks. _Why am I… _**_sympathizing_**_ with the Dark? _

Dark was scorned, tossed aside, considered outcast.

Then the answer—the _relationship_ between them—clicked and he slammed the book shut in anger, tossing it on the shelf with an angry huff. He rocked forward onto his feet and stalked out of the annex, one hand coming up to tiredly comb through his hair—

_Just like when Ravolom—_

He clenched his small hands over his ears, eyes tightly squeezed shut. And Merlin, now he couldn't even get the man out of his head! This was crazy! Ravolom had slid into his mind and seemed content to stay. _Every single dang thing _Harry did or said or saw all freaking day reminded him in some way, _somehow_, of Ravolom…

And his offer to heal his mind, subsequently…

Harry did not notice that he had left the bookshop until the soles of his booted feet hit the rough cobblestone. He stumbled slightly as his feet adjusted to the new texture and kept walking, eyes halfway open. A headache applied pressure to the backs of his eyelids; he realized he'd been having quite a lot of them lately, most in the dead of night, and they usually intensified to the point where he'd almost consider them migraines.

_I'm probably dehydrated, _he thought._ I should drink more liquids. No taking care of body=no health, which equals no magic, just like Ravol—_

Merlin. This was insane.

He shook himself once more as if to dislodge lingering cobwebs and ducked his head down, sticking his pale hands into the pockets sewn into his silk robes. His outer traveling cloak whispered along the ground, trailing behind him, fluttering in the breeze that bounded through the streets.

He ran face-first into something hard and fell back on his bum.

For a moment, his mind automatically assumed it to be Ravolom (because really, he'd run into the man two times during the space of, what, thirty minutes?) but he immediately dismissed the idea when his eyes cracked open and peered at the obstructing person.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with (super-mega-crazy) high-class robes. His black gloves (they looked exotic—were they imported?) gripped an elegant black cane topped with a gleaming metal cobra's head with a fully expanded hood. The snake's eyes were inlaid emeralds. Harry's eyes traveled upwards, and his breathing hitched when he saw the man's features.

Long, fine, platinum blonde hair… the pale, glittering eyes… the thin slash of a mouth… He'd recognize those cultured features anywhere...

Lucius Malfoy.

Just great.

**.**

**Lucius**

**.**

"Watch yourself, child," Lucius snapped, brushing off his robes, as if the boy had contaminated them with filth. (Probably had. Merlin knows what types of diseases these uncouth children running around today carried.)

But the next second, brilliant emerald eyes blinked, looking up at him. They glowed in the summer light, possessing an eerie intensity that defied their owner's age. Lucius tilted his head, pausing, and then flicked his cane underneath the child's chin, tipping the boy's head back.

He'd recognize that messy head of black hair and the crest that adorned the brooch of the boy's collar anywhere.

One of the Potter's ilk.

A cold, tight-lipped smile crawled across his face.

Harry Potter, wasn't it? The twin of the supposed boy-who-lived?

Just great.

"Ah… if it isn't the _brother_ of the boy-who-lived…" he said, unexpectedly switching his harsh tone into something more cordial. He hid his icy glee as his thoughts flashed back to the moment when he and the other Inner Circle members had crouched in their Lord's throne room. He vividly remembered the Dark Lord mistakenly assuming the black-haired boy to be the supposed Chosen One.

The thing is, their Lord was never wrong.

And Lucius himself hadn't been at the Potters that fateful night… so how could he judge the evidence?

No. If their Master said it had been the black-haired child, then it was the black-haired child.

He tilted the boy's head back even further, examining those stunning eyes. They were Slytherin green, so deep you felt like you could drown in them.

"Tell me," he said suddenly, dropping his cane from the child's chin. The boy immediately sprang to his feet, obviously not liking the sensation of crouching in front of an opponent. "Where are your parents, child?"

"Busy," Harry said evenly, and Lucius was temporarily thrown off guard. Whenever he ran into (not usually _that_ literally) one of the Potters, he was treated with ill-disguised contempt and hatred. Not that it affected him, of course, it was actually slightly amusing—but to see a Potter look at him with no clearly negative feelings?

Curious. The child could make a very experienced Occlumens, if he set his mind to it.

"Doing what?" He paused, remembering the gossip that had flown around the recent socialite party he had attended—that Dumbledore would be giving Michael lessons. Taking a gamble, he threw the rumor into the air. "Buying your twin's wand for him?"

Crippling pain danced in Harry's eyes before he blanked once more, straightening his posture and tipping his head back. "Maybe. I was… I was just on my way to support Michael." He twitched at the end, fumbling with his words slightly.

Lucius noticed the fabricated lie and smirked. "Oh? Well, these are dangerous times, Mr. Potter… can't have you getting kidnapped by nasty Death Eaters, correct? I think... I shall escort you."

Lucius had been on his way to Borgin and Burke's when he encountered the young child, but that could wait. He had a much more interesting spectacle taking place around him.

"It's all right, sir," Harry said sweetly, and Lucius just might have believed it if it wasn't for the tenseness that resided in the boy's features. "I know the way."

Lucius rested a hand on the child's shoulder, starting slightly as he felt the skinniness. If he flexed his fingers, he could feel his shoulder bone. Honestly, did that vile family even feed him?

"No, I insist. It would be discourteous of me to leave a defenseless, vulnerable child out here, all alone. I dare say your family should be ashamed of themselves."

"I'm not defenseless!" Harry spat, suddenly venomous. His pupils dilated in rage. Lucius tipped his head, nudging the boy forward to walk beside him.

"Really? I was under the impression that Dumbledore had declined to instruct you, in favor of the other boy. Was it because of your lack of magic?" The cruel, simpering words did the trick. Harry turned his shadowed face away from him.

So many cracks. How did this child hold himself together?

"That's not how it happened," Harry muttered, sounding both mutinous and lost. His fists clenched and unclenched alternately as he struggled to reign in his temper. The child would make a fine Slytherin—his amount of control was astounding. Or, at the least, a neutral Ravenclaw… definitely not a Hufflepuff, and Lucius hoped that he wouldn't sort into Gryffindor. The boy was much too complex to become one of those foolish, heart-on-sleeve imbeciles.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to insult." Of course he meant it, but false politeness could carry one a long way.

"It's fine."

He was so quiet. Did he talk much at home? Lucius would bet his entire vault of Galleons (and that was quite the healthy sum, mind you) that Lily and James fawned mostly over the other son. For a second, his mind flashed to his own son—Draco would be around Harry's age, wouldn't he?

An idea, so delightfully dark, sparked in his mind, and he turned to face his younger companion. "Harry," he said, and the use of his first name grabbed his attention quite nicely, "I have a son your age. I'm sure he would love your company. Malfoy Manor has an extensive library full of ancient, magical texts… there might even be something in there to help increase your magic capability."

Harry looked interested, as much as he tried to hide it. Lucius smirked, averting his face so Harry wouldn't see it.

They'd reached Ollivanders. Harry looked at it in discomfort, blatantly not wanting to enter, but the child needed to learn to watch what he said.

"You are welcome at my home, whenever you feel like it," Lucius said smoothly, his fingers absently straightening the lad's collar. "I hope you take up my offer."

A mix of curiosity, wariness, and questioning glistened in the child's eyes, but that was to be expected. There'd be no hope for Harry if he was stupid enough to jump into the situation without pre-meditation.

As he walked away, Lucius briefly wondered how long it had been since someone had extended a hand of friendship to the boy.

Obviously, quite a while, considering the glint of curious, childish wonder that had shone in his eyes.

**.**

**Harry**

**.**

Harry stood there until Mr. Malfoy had rounded the corner. He didn't have to wait long. The man's long legs carried him at a quick pace through the streets. He ruffled his hair in confusion. Didn't his parents loathe the Malfoy's?

So, by extension, the Malfoy's should hate them back—that was how the world worked. Harry had seen it multiple times from his quiet place in the shadows. If you hated something, that something usually hated you back. The world was cruel like that.

So… Mr. Malfoy's reactions didn't compute.

_Conclusion: Truth of his statements=spurious. _

Still though, the man had basically offered him free entrance into the Malfoy Library! Harry knew that purebloods usually owned massive libraries, full of texts thought to be lost. Potter Manor had quite a collection on its own, but a lot of the ancient books there were written in a dead language that Harry had no idea how to read.

…But he was only eight (almost nine)! What chance did he have of understanding the material?

He sighed, pushed the matter to the back of his mind for further consideration, and reluctantly entered Ollivanders.

His first impression was that it was dimly lit. As his vision adjusted, his second impression was that the room was small. His third impression was that, no, he was wrong, the room was actually quite spacious—if it weren't for the large shelves that suffocated every bit of space available. Thousands and thousands of narrow, rectangular boxes—wand cases, he realized—lined the shelves. Everything was coated in a layer of dust.

This place looked like it hadn't been occupied in years. Harry's eyes narrowed, flicking from side to side. Was this just the entrance room? He'd spent _hours _creating how the shop looked from the inside. He'd always imagined a magnificent shop, with carved wooden panels and immaculate cleanliness and gold furnishings—

"Ah, Mr. Potter… Harry, if I'm correct?" A voice, made hoarse by age, issued from the shadowy corners of the room, coming from behind one of the many shelves.

He leaped out of his skin and whirled. A man—old, stooped from age—hobbled towards him. Harry backed up in alarm, his eyes widening. The man stopped. His eyes, round and silvery, like moons, blinked slowly.

"Here for a wand? You have just missed your family, I'm sorry to inform you. I believe they mentioned going to Fortescue's. Now let's see…"

He jumped track of the conversation so fast that Harry could barely keep up. A tape measurer zoomed out of the gloom and extended with a snap, measuring Harry's arms, finger width, and the _space between his nostrils? _

Harry batted the insistent thing away. "I'm… I'm sorry, sir… only my brother is getting a wand… I just came to find them…"

The man snorted.

"Mr. Potter, never has someone stepped into my shop and left without a partner in their hand… it is my sole duty in life to match you with the best connection possible… Now… wave this…"

He grabbed one of the narrow boxes, brushed the dust off it, and flipped the lid off. His spindly fingers plucked the wand from its velvet lining and pushed it into his hands. As much as Harry wanted to convey that he honestly wasn't here to buy a wand (he didn't even know how much they cost—what if he found his partner wand but couldn't pay for it?) his protests stuttered to a stop when he felt the smooth wood in his hands.

Enraptured, he rolled it gently in his palm. It seemed so fragile. How could something so easily broken grant someone so much power?

A great wave of selfishness mixed with rebelliousness rose inside him, and he clenched his fingers around the wooden handle—why should his brother be the only one to get a wand? He'd show them that he had magic—that he could handle owning a wand!

He'd make them _so_ sorry.

His eyes flicked upwards, meeting Ollivander's misty, luminous ones. He nodded in determination and raised his hand, flicking the wand the way he'd seen his father do occasionally.

He expected glorious light to erupt, or for the wand to heat in his hands as it bonded with him.

He did _not_ expect, however, for a foul-smelling smoke to pour from the wand's tip, rushing at his face. He coughed and stumbled, and would have dropped the wand had Ollivander not scooped it from his hands.

"What was that?" He gasped, waving a hand to dissipate the cloud. Ollivander tutted as he firmly placed the wand back in the box, shaking his grizzled head.

"My my, that wand really did not like you," he mused as he slid the box back in its place.

Harry gaped_. "What?"_

"Oh yes," Ollivander said absently, standing on his tiptoes to grab a box from the top shelf. "I would even say it loathed you. Interesting."

"Excuse me?" Harry finally managed to stutter, still smelling that foul odor in his nostrils. Ollivander glanced at him briefly, and in that single look, Harry saw a knowing wisdom that seemed eons old. The man's eyes were like galaxies, swirling with stars and planets.

"Mr. Potter, our wands are our partners. You might even say they are semi-sentient. That is why wands do not always work for people other than their owners—they can be incredibly loyal. Many wait for decades for the right person."

He pulled down the box, flipped it open. Another wand, this one of a lighter shade of brown, lay inside. "You see, Harry… the wand chooses the wizard. Not the other way around."

The wand didn't work for him.

And neither did the next, or the next, or the one after that, or the _ten_ after that, or the _twenty_ after that…

None of them had as spectacular a reaction as the first. Most simply lay dead in his hands, making him feel foolish when he waved them around. A fear was gathering in his heart; that they would run out of wands, and Mr. Ollivander would say that he obviously couldn't possibly be a wizard—

As Harry grew more and more despondent, Mr. Ollivander seemed to cheer up, growing nearly frantic in his excitement. "A challenge, a challenge…!"

He must have tried hundreds of wands by now. The pile of discarded boxes in the corner grew bigger by the minute. Mr. Ollivander had just yanked one from his fingers—another dud—when he paused, tilting his head.

"I wonder…"

He disappeared into the back of the store. Harry took the time to inhale shakily and attempt to calm his fraying nerves. _I have a match. I have a match. _If only he believed it.

"Here we are!" Mr. Ollivander appeared from the murk, another wand case held in his hands. "Holly, 11 inches, phoenix feather core, nice and supple…" This box looked different—older than the others, with small gold workings on the sharp corners. He gingerly brought the wand out and placed it in Harry's small hands.

Harry looked down, biting his lip. The wand was dark brown, straight, and a medium-sized length. Tiny etchings decorated its handle.

Harry inhaled, in, out, in, out, then waved it.

Warmth traveled up his arm; not a scalding, burning sensation, but a softer, kinder version, like sitting in front of a fire after trooping in from the snow. It was like... like the warmth that radiated from a loving smile. Harry's fingers tightened their hold and he gestured once more, this time with more force, more power.

An explosion of red sparks streamed from the wand tip.

There was no one there to clap for him, but if he had been alone in the shop, he might've broken down crying in relief. As it were, Mr. Ollivander gave him a soft smile and moved closer, holding out a palm for the wand. "Curious, so very curious… I had thought the wand would choose your brother… but then again…" His moon-like eyes fixated on Harry's scar, peaking through the fringes of his bangs.

Harry stayed silent, clutching the wand protectively to his chest. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Mr. Ollivander raised a bushy eyebrow. "Come now, Mr. Potter, I'm only going to wrap it for you."

Reluctantly, Harry passed the wand to him, feeling the warmth fade. As Mr. Ollivander turned his back to busy himself with the box, reality crashed over Harry. His face crumbled.

"I can't take it, Mr. Ollivander. My parents… they'll be mad if they found out I got a wand without asking them…" He fought back tears and looked away. Mr. Ollivander paused, still holding the wrapping material in one hand.

"Yes, that is a problem…"

Harry's shoulders sagged. He turned around silently, ready to exit the store, but a hand clamped on his shoulder and pulled him back.

"You may not be able to use your real wand… but how about a second?"

Harry could barely hear over the blood rushing through his ears. "What?"

"A second wand, Mr. Potter… in the ancient times, you see, it was quite common to own two wands… a main one and a backup in case something happened during a duel."

"I don't understand, sir…" Harry had never seen his father or mother use a different wand. They didn't have secondary wands, did they? But then again, Mr. Ollivander had said that it was in the olden days… maybe it was out of practice, now?

"A secondary wand is different from you "first" wand, so to speak, because it actually takes time to bond with the user, whereas your main wand links with you upon the first encounter. However, if used enough, a secondary wand may create a bond as strong as the rightful one."

Harry's head was reeling. "How—how does this help my problem, though?"

In a startling display of, well, _life, _Ollivander winked, already fading back into the shelves. "If you handle it carefully… you may keep it hidden until you come back for school shopping, whereupon _I_ will give you the _real_ wand."

"You—you'd do that? For me?" Harry was so startled, he had to remind himself to breathe. The notion that someone would go out of their way to help him with something… the concept was so alien, so strange, that he wasn't sure how to respond.

In way of response, Mr. Ollivander pushed another box into his hands. It wasn't as extravagant as the other, but somehow, it seemed just as aged.

"Cedar, dragon heartstring, quite hard, twelve and a-half inches."

Harry took out the wand. It was a lighter brown than his holly, with a rich red undertone, and also a bit longer. It was more rigid than his first. He twirled it in his hands experimentally. There was a slight pause, in which his heart refused to beat, but then a hesitant flood of warmth—not quite as accepting as his holly—tingled through his arm. Strangely, he thought he felt the vaguest tendrils of a questioning, slightly curious feeling circuit through him as he shifted the wand delicately in his hands. A small cloud of dark green gas leaked from the tip—it smelled refreshing, like the wilderness.

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter. You'll be interested to know that that wand is one of the first I ever made… I am, in actuality, quite sad to see it go… but I suppose all things must start somewhere."

Dazed, Harry could only watch as Mr. Ollivander packaged it for him. He numbly opened the mouth of his moneybag and gently, ever so gently, slipped it inside. It lay nestled among the glittering piles of gold far below, but to Harry, it was worth more than all the Galleons in the world. His fingers itched to take the wand out and feel the rush again, but he stayed himself.

"How much do I owe you?" Harry asked finally, regaining his brains. Mr. Ollivander waved a wrinkled hand.

"My boy, I have longed to see that wand choose someone for a very long time. It brings me joy to see it bond with such an ideal partner. I ask no payment."

Harry realized his mouth was open and shut it quickly. He was shocked because Mr. Ollivander had broken the second principle that Harry had observed about the world—_everything_ had a price.

As he left the shop, the moneybag feeling rather warm in his hands, a voice ghosted after him: "I expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. Great things, indeed…"

**.**

**.**

**To quote Ollivander on Pottermore (Yes, I have an account. Yes, I am a Gryffindor.): "Whenever I meet one who carries a cedar wand, I find strength of character and unusual loyalty. My father, Gervaise Ollivander, always used to say, 'you will never fool the cedar carrier,' and I agree: the cedar wand finds its perfect home where there is perspicacity and perception. I would go further than my father, however, in saying that I have never yet met the owner of a cedar wand whom I would care to cross, especially if harm is done to those of whom they are fond. The witch or wizard who is well-matched with cedar carries the potential to be a frightening adversary, which often comes as a shock to those who have thoughtlessly challenged them."**

**Boo-yeah, Baby. Harry-in-a-wand. I chose dragon heartstring b/c it produces wands with most power, learn more quickly, and is easiest to turn to Dark Arts. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys, happy Friday. I've got new classes, which means a lot less workload now that finals are over, so I'll have more time to write. To anyone wanting to see some more Sirius and Remus in this story, I promise, they're a-coming!**

**And what happened? I got almost 60 reviewers for one chapter and then went back down to around 30 again. You guys are hard to please, lol :P**

**Thank you to my 331 followers, even all you silent ones. Yes, I still appreciate you. Thank you to all the guests who are still kind enough to review even if they don't have an account.**

**Coldblue, I can't answer your questions without giving away important info about the storyline! D: Oh, and good luck in college. **

**~Misconceptions~**

**Chapter 7**

**By: Dreams2Paper11**

**.**

**.**

_**:Two weeks later:**_

It was 1:42 a.m. when Harry sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes to clear the crusties. Excitement thrummed through his veins, and he shivered as he swung his legs out of bed, pushing his feet into black satin slippers. His fingers couldn't stop twitching, and he fumbled as he picked up his glasses and placed them on his face.

It was time.

Thankfully, the constant headaches that had plagued him when he slept were absent tonight, and Harry was immensely grateful for the reprieve, however temporary it may be.

Quietly, he padded across his room—it was quite large and spacious, with an imposing window that allowed pale moonlight to filter through the gauzy white curtains. His shadow, its black form oddly stretched and solid, dogged his heels as he tiptoed to the heavy trunk next to his dresser.

The trunk was one of Harry's most valued possessions—mainly because it served as a shelter for the other little oddities that he'd collected over the years. He loved it dearly because it was _his_, and it always had been. It was never previously owned by anyone—say, Michael, for instance—and Harry had had it in his possession since the tender age of four, when he'd started collecting things.

Harry ran his fingers lovingly over the scratched surface, tracing the light gouges in the aged wood. With quivering fingers, he flipped the brass latches the fastened the lid in place. As he leaned forward to carry out the motion, a beam of watery moonlight shone through the window and flooded the inside compartment, illuminating a curious pile of objects.

Old, tattered books of fairytales, their words blurred by usage, lined the bottom of the trunk. On top of that, relics from the sea lay; twisted pieces of smooth, interesting driftwood, their outer bark stripped away to reveal their gleaming pale centers. Ruffled, brilliantly-colored shells that still smelled faintly of salt. Beautifully rounded stones that resembled marbles more than rocks. Their glass-like curved surfaces allowed glimpses into their neon, crystallized centers.

And on top of that glittering pile lay the black drawstring moneybag.

Harry slipped his fingers through the silk loops and lifted the pouch into the air, silently marveling at its magicked lightness. With one deft movement, he loosened the mouth of the bag and peered inside, his heart pounding.

The rectangular box rested on top of the piles of galleons as magnificently as a king reclines on his golden throne.

His hands were trembling so badly that he set the bag down and crouched so he wouldn't mistakenly drop it, and its precious treasure inside. He reached an arm inside, gripped the edges of the case, and eased the box out of the pouch.

The moonlight bounced off its shined exterior—Harry had lovingly tended to the case's appearance for two weeks after receiving it, too frightened to open it yet too excited to simply leave it alone. His breaths were coming in short gasps now, and he exerted all of his considerable self-control in calming his breathing. Paranoia ran rampant through his mind—what if his parents entered the room and saw it? Or if Michael wandered in and happened upon it? And what if they took it away? Harry's little fingers tightened on the sharp edges, his young face darkening.

No. He wouldn't let them touch it. Not ever.

He took a reassuring breath as he attempted to bolster his confidence. _It's like ripping off a Magi-Bandage, _he told himself as his fingers restlessly played with themselves. _Just do it without thinking, just do it suddenly, unexpect—_

He jerked upwards and tore the lid off the box.

There, resting upon a folded velvet cloth of deep purple, lay his cedar wand.

He carefully lifted it from its pillow, trailing his fingers up and down its smooth length.

_So frail. How can something like this grant so much power? _

He brought it to his nostrils, inhaling deeply. It still retained that fragrance of wild, untamed freedom mixed with the scent of freshly upturned soil and cleansing rains. It was the most glorious aroma he had ever smelled.

His ivory hands adjusted the wand in his grip, molding delicately around the carved handle. It fit perfectly in his palm.

_I shouldn't be doing this. I might wake them up. I shouldn't be doing this. I _**_really_**_ shouldn't be doing this. Ravolom said my magic was blocked… what if I hurt myself trying to force it? What if I permanently block off my magic?_

Unbending to his logical thoughts, his traitorous arms raised the wand, pointing it at one of the marble-like stones.

_I don't even know any spells! What if I set the house on fire? What if I can't get help until it's too late? _

Even so, his strands of willpower braided together, forming a weave of tempered steel. He would do this. He _could _do this.

Do _what_, he wasn't too sure of, but the chant was comforting anyway.

He simply looked at the stone, his wand tip angled towards it, and mouthed the word _'Please' _over and over again.

He experienced his first crushing disappointment when the stone did not do anything spectacular, and the wand felt distant, somehow, in his fingers. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, opened them, and resumed his chant, forcing all of his power into the reiterating thought.

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

The minutes trickled by steadily, and the rays of moonlight began to crawl across the floor, switching angles, but Harry might as well have been an expertly carved statue.

_Please; I want this. _

_Please._

_Please… I… I really want this…_

…

His knees had begun to ache from pressing into the hard floor, but still he did not twitch a muscle, save for the occasional slow blink. His eyes were trained intently on the glistening pebble.

_Please…_

…

…

_No…_

The waning moon dipped behind a bank of thick clouds, and the room was suddenly bathed in shadows. His grip increased, then relaxed slightly.

_I don't want this…_

…

_I _**_NEED_**_ this._

A small flame of warmth ignited in his chest, and he gasped at the foreign sensation. The heat rippled out from his pulsing chest, rushing down his limbs and into his fingers, making them tingle pleasantly. His wand gave a funny jolt in his hands.

The next second, the pebble wobbled, clacking quietly against the floor, before rising ten centimeters into the air unsteadily. It trembled, but steadied itself out after a few seconds. Transfixed, Harry could only watch with utter captivation as the stone floated weightlessly in front of his face. Moonlight struck the round, clear pebble and refracted, splitting into several thin beams that painted the floorboards with moving, glowing patterns.

An energized link flowed through the three of them, he realized. The strange, beating pulse in Harry's small chest (it felt so warm and so welcoming) pressed energy into his fingertips, and the energy then traveled through his wand (his wand was like… what was it called, a conduit?) whereupon the wand then channeled the magic to the stone.

The closest thing that Harry could compare the feel of the magic to would be… tangible music, perhaps? It sang through his blood, stepping as delicately as skilled fingers dancing over ivory keys, with a resonating, pitched hum that would shame any vocalist. Its rhythm ebbed and flowed like sighing waves on a shore. The harmony was so beautiful, so pure…

Harry's eyes were blurring; hot tears of pure, undiluted joy had begun to stream down his face. He'd never imagined that it could feel like this, not in his wildest of dreams.

When the first teardrop hit the floor, the link suddenly shuddered, rippling, and then fizzled out of existence. The enthralling song faded sadly. A backlash of utter _agony_ reared its head and pummeled him viciously. The wand rolled from his stiffened fingers as he slowly collapsed sideways onto the ground.

_He couldn't breathe; it felt like something cold was wrapped around him, squeezing him mercilessly._

Blackness smothered his vision, and the last thing he saw was the glass-like stone dropping to the floor and bouncing away.

He came to a few minutes later, feeling slightly chilled. He'd never felt more drained in his life. His body ached like he'd been trampled by one of the horses his dad had transfigured for Michael.

_Note Number 1: The block on my magic can cause pain. _

He slowly shifted upright, breathing in disjointed gasps, feeling the exhaustion settling in his limbs.

_Note Number 2: And using magic is also _**_really_**_ taxing. _

Crawling on his trembling hands and knees, he retrieved the stone from where it had rolled under the bed and placed it back in his trunk. Knowing that he shouldn't push himself any farther than he already had, he regretfully packed up his wand and deposited the box in the moneybag, and the moneybag into the trunk, refusing to think about what had just happened. The simple realization that he had done magic, no matter the pain, was enough to numb his mind.

He locked the trunk when he was done, his fingers fumbling, made clumsy by the vertigo that was rocking him back and forth. Locking the trunk was a useless gesture, really, considering how any wizard or witch with two brain cells to rub together could unlock it easily, but it still gave him a sense of reassurance.

He dragged himself into bed, shaking from tiredness, his vision swimming.

_I have magic, _he marveled hazily as he felt himself drifting off the moment his head hit the soft pillow. _It just… kind of hurts really bad when I use it… _His conscious thoughts muddled with his subconscious, and a recent memory, semi-lucid, floated to the front of his mind…

_A great wave of selfishness mixed with rebelliousness rose inside him, and he clenched his fingers around the wooden handle—why should his brother be the only one to get a wand? He'd show them that he had magic—that he could handle owning a wand!_

_**He'd make them so sorry. **_

Despite the soreness in his muscles, he fell asleep with a content smile on his face.

**.**

**.**

When Albus Dumbledore arrived for Michael's first lesson, Harry was still finishing up lunch, now sitting alone in the dining room as the rest of his family had rushed to the door to welcome the old man. Harry hurriedly gulped down his sandwich, wanting to escape before the eccentric wizard caught sight of him. The last thing he wanted was another stupid _talk_.

"I understand that the wards placed on Potter Manor confuse the Ministry's underage-magic sensor, but I have obtained a pass from them just so we don't accidentally break a few laws… Not that you'd have a problem with that, James…" Professor Dumbledore sounded like an amused grandfather as the Potters laughed knowingly at his joke. James, between entertained huffs, agreed.

The heavy trod of footsteps came closer to the kitchen, pacing down the hallway, and Harry grabbed his half-eaten sandwich and bolted through the kitchen exit and up the grand stairs, not stopping until he'd reached the library.

He had nothing to say to Albus Dumbledore.

He tucked himself away in the little alcove in the back of the library and opened a book on magical theory, flipping to his marked page. The margins were covered in his childish scrawl—if one was to read them, they'd be shocked by the advanced vocabulary—and other notes that he'd taken as he read. He silently ate his turkey sandwich as he skimmed, always careful not to spill a crumb of food on the pages. The textbook he was leafing through was actually quite recently published. It was a magical theory explanation for second year students.

Harry could understand _most _of it. (Or at least, he hoped that he understood it. It's not like he could ask his parents whether he was right or wrong.) No, his parents would never know that he was studying magic. He wanted to surprise them. He could already see the day when he revealed that he could do magic—his mother would throw her arms around him and dazzle him with her lovely smile, and James would ruffle his hair, just the way Harry liked. And Michael…

For once, Michael would stand in the shadows and _watch_.

An absent smile stretched Harry's lips as he scribbled down another note.

He knew the basics of magical theory. Now all that was left… was to apply them. Harry licked his lips eagerly as he anticipated the coming of night, when he'd be able to pull out his wand and feel that addicting rush again. Maybe… maybe this time he'd even try a spell?

_No_, he dismissed after a pause, _not yet. Not after the pain. I'll have to wait and see… _He knew the dangers of magic, particularly his, seeing as it was curiously blocked. Ravolom had lectured him quite thoroughly on it, so—

He jolted, the pages slipping from between his fingers. The book fell over, closing and losing his place. _Ravolom!_

He looked down, noticing that he was wearing the same pants as he had when he'd met Ravolom in the forest… which meant…

He tentatively slipped his hand inside his pocket and pulled out the enchanted galleon. Its gold surface gleamed wickedly in the harsh afternoon light. He bit his lip, pushing the forgotten book to the side so he could more carefully examine the coin.

It looked innocently normal enough. It contained the same slight contours and dips created by the faces imprinted on the metal. Heck, it even had a few tiny nicks in the sides, as if it were simply an old, used coin! Its mimicry of the real money was so perfect that Harry doubted he'd be able to tell it apart from a regular galleon if not for its shade; the color was ever so slightly darker than a regular galleon. It was barely noticeable, however, and Harry doubted that anyone except a goblin would notice the difference.

Words flashed in his head: _Linkus Summone. _

Two little words, and then Ravolom would be able to help him…

Harry rubbed his fingers together uncomfortably, remembering the sudden, sharp burst of pain that had followed the use of his magic. That wasn't _normal_. Normal wizards didn't experience pain like that when they summoned their magic.

But he'd been eating really well and everything! He'd even started jogging around the perimeter of his room many, many times each night before he went to bed!

_But, _his brain reminded him, _that was only half of Ravolom's suggestion…_

Ah, yes. The… _mind healing. Legilimency. _

Speaking of that, he still needed to find information on the topic. He'd searched the library for books on the subject, but any of the ones that even remotely seemed to mention the terrifying skill were written in an entirely foreign language. Was Ravolom the only one who knew this skill? Was it hereditary? Was there a defense against it?

… Was Ravolom really the only one who could help ease the pain he felt when he attempted magic?

Harry sighed, slumping in his chair, and tiredly swept his inky black hair out of his eyes. What to do?

_Process information known about the character. _

Okay, Ravolom was obviously incredibly skilled in magic. He was charming and young, and a brilliant teacher. He'd comforted him when he cried—Harry winced as he remembered—and had given him advice on freeing his magic.

He'd _also_ appeared as threatening as a raging Basilisk at times, and his eyes were so creepy… and he'd hurt Harry with Legilimency… and he'd ruthlessly slaughtered that beautiful dove… he'd made Harry cry…

… But maybe he'd only done that mind-thing because he thought Harry was a threat?

He instantly scoffed at the absurdity of that, shaking his head. As if he could pose a threat to someone that powerful, and anyway, who would classify an eight-year-old as a threat?

… He'd _offered _to give Harry his magic, though… and as skeptical Harry was about the whole thing… he couldn't remember anyone ever offering him something as valuable as that. He couldn't stamp out the small glow of gratitude he felt when he recalled Ravolom's offer, and he didn't like that. It made him feel indebted.

Harry worried his lower lip, flipping the galleon slowly between his fingers. Something about the older man had drawn him in like a bee to honey. His presence, though unwelcome at times, had felt so familiar and natural. It was like Harry had been acquainted with the man for years.

…Now that he thought about it, why hadn't he mentioned it to his parents? Or to Dumbledore? He should've just gone up to one of them and said, _Hey, there was this strange guy in the woods tonight and he offered to teach me magic and junk, and I'm kind of considering taking up his offer…_

Yeah, no.

Ravolom…

Ravolom was his. _His secret. _

The very thought sent a flame of joy rippling through his heart. He'd never had a secret before. He'd never had to. No one had ever bothered asking him about anything. The fact that he possessed possibly important information and was consciously withholding it from his parent's knowledge… He tipped his head forward in deliberation. Dark strands of hair swept over his eyes, shadowing them. A faint smirk settled in the corners of his lips.

Having a secret made him feel somewhat, well, _above _his parents. Like he was simply playing with them like a cat plays with a mouse. A glorious emotion accompanied the mental image, and Harry realized what it was a moment later.

Control.

_He_ controlled what his mother and father knew about the situation… _he did. _Not _Michael_, not _Dumbledore_, not even Siri or Remy… it was such a powerful thing, really. It felt so welcome that Harry was almost disturbed by how much amusement the feeling brought him.

He supposed it was because he'd never really had any control over his life. Every situation, even down to what he ate for lunch, was planned for him. He'd been forced to stand on the sidelines and watch as Michael stole all the attention.

He felt chained, as if he was fettered to the ground with heavy iron shackles, while Michael flitted tauntingly above his head, out of his reach. He wanted so badly to ascend into the sky, feel the wind in his hair…

The freedom in having control was honestly enjoyable, like liquid sweetness upon his tongue.

His smirk widened. _Freedom in control… sounds like a slogan for an uprising. Quite a good one, actually…_

He decided he quite liked keeping secrets.

As he idly slipped the coin back into his pocket, he contemplated taking up Ravolom's offer. Ravolom could give him magic… and magic was power, as Harry had learned… and power birthed control… and control was a marvelous thing.

Besides, the man was simply so darn _mysterious_. Harry wouldn't deny that he had always been an extremely curious child. He liked getting answers. Yet he knew next to nothing abut the man, and that rubbed him the wrong way, prickling his consciousness like an angry thorn.

If he told his parents about Ravolom, then it was very likely he'd never see the man again and he'd never learn about him.

It would be a challenge, of course, withholding information from his parents, both intellectual people, and discovering who Ravolom was.

He made up his mind, rising from his chair, the living room his destination. Michael should be finishing up his training lessons with Dumbledore by now.

_Dumbledore isn't the only one who can help with magic. _

It would be a challenge, a _puzzle, _and Harry liked puzzles.

_And it would be another secret to keep, which made the taste that much sweeter._

**.**

**Michael**

**.**

He exited the "training room" (really one of the unused rooms that Dumbledore had magically augmented), grinning like a fool. His heart beat excitedly in his chest. He was tired, yes, but that couldn't stop him from enjoying his first taste of intentional magic. Sweat had clumped his dark brown hair together, and he raked it back impatiently as he fell backwards onto the sofa in front of the living room fireplace.

"Fun lesson, I'm guessing?"

Michael jerked at the toneless voice that had spoken quite close to him. He sat up, his wand clenched in his fingers. Harry raised a slender dark eyebrow, not even bothering to look up from his book as he reclined casually on the other end of the couch. The distinct lack of caring in his voice needled at Michael, and his brows momentarily twitched in annoyance.

"Yeah, it was, actually… Professor Dumbledore is so awesome… he says I've got a lot of potential…" Michael beamed, unable to keep his voice tight as he began to gush. "Harry, it's so awesome, I can't even… it's beyond words…"

"Not that you know many," Harry interjected, smirking for a second before the expression vanished under his cool mask once again. Michael rolled his eyes, contemplating just getting up and leaving. (Harry should be **really** grateful that he was the one attempting to reach out. He'd never had to do that before; people just naturally gravitated towards him.)

Michael's buoyant smile bobbed onto his face once again as his thoughts drifted back to the rush of magic he had experienced…

"No, listen, it's like… a flood of excitement and the best feeling in the world! Professor Dumbledore taught me a spell, _Wingardium Leviosa, _and I managed to hold a knut five centimeters off the ground for ten seconds! He says that's really, really good for my—our— age."

He didn't mention how it had taken nearly two hours of just staring at that stupid coin for it to move and repeating the incantation _over and over again. _His wrist still ached from the constant flicking and swishing.

Harry turned his face away, but his cheek appeared lifted, and he had raised a pale hand to cover his mouth. Michael frowned. He hadn't said a joke. "What? What's so funny?"

Harry seemed to breathe deeply and relax his shoulders before he twisted back around. There was no smile on his blank face. Had Michael imagined it?

"Nothing… just thinking…"

"About what?" Michael asked, pursuing the conversation. Harry was acting somewhat civil towards him (still coldly detached, but, honestly… that was kind of normal…) and Michael was determined to seize the chance to talk to his twin more.

He'd never, **ever** admit it, but sometimes, surrounded by people that only wanted him for the his fame, he felt desperately lonely. Those were the times when he missed Harry's company the most.

He hated feeling lonely. He shouldn't have to feel that way, _honestly_. He didn't deserve it at all.

So he'd made it a personal goal to re-establish his relationship with his brother before they went to Hogwarts. He didn't care if Harry didn't like him anymore—he'd _make_ him. Nobody had ever denied being his friend, and this was a challenge. Michael didn't mind challenges. His parents, though gentle, were always pushing him to do his best, and this reinforcement had created a stubborn streak within him a mile wide.

"Just trying to imagine what magic feels like…" Harry answered, appearing slightly bitter, curling tightly into the couch and gripping his book with a bit more force than necessary. The edges of the pages crinkled slightly under his fingers "You know, since I apparently can't do it and am not worthy of a teacher…"

Inside, Michael was quietly amazed by the words flowing from Harry's mouth. Harry barely ever talked, unless it was necessary. He usually faded into the background, refraining from joining in conversations or games. So why was Harry sharing all these (admittedly acerbic) thoughts with him?

What if… what if Harry had so many things to say but just kept them inside?

Michael jerked out of his musings when Harry snapped his book shut and gracefully rose from the couch. He leaped forward, grabbing his twin's thin wrist with his free hand, nearly pulling him back onto the sofa.

"Hey, wait, I'm… I'm s—" As much as he wanted to say the hated word, he couldn't get it past his lips, not a second time. He hated apologizing. It hurt his pride.

So he redirected the conversation instead.

"Professor Dumbledore is an incredible wizard, there's probably no one like him, right…?" He laughed lightly, sticking his thumbs in his pockets as he lounged back on the couch, feigning ease.

Wow.

Worst. Subject. Change. _Ever_. He'd never understand how Slytherins could be so crafty with their words. It was too much trouble trying to watch what spewed out of his mouth. He much preferred to say what he felt needed to be said and then deal with the consequences later.

"I don't think so," Harry murmured after a second's hesitation, turning partly to face him. His hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a stray galleon, deliberately, slowly tracing its gleaming perimeter with his thumb. His gaze stared intently at the coin, seemingly enraptured. "I think there could be another wizard equal to, or, dare I say it, _greater_ than _Albus Dumbledore._"

Michael arched a brow inquisitively, smiling a little, as if to humor him. _Like there's someone greater than Dumbledore._ "Really? Who?" Then, in an attempt to sound more intelligent, (because somehow, talking with Harry made him feel stupid in comparison), he added, "Care to… elab-elaborate?" He'd heard mum and dad say that phrase once. He thought it to be quite advanced for an eight-year-old.

Harry tipped his head to the side and smiled. Michael got the eerie feeling that Harry knew what he had tried to do. He shifted uncomfortably under that relentless stare.

"I said I think there _could_ be, not that there was." His piercing green gaze flicked towards the wand held in Michael's hand, and an awful smirk—here one second, gone the next—flashed over his face. "Try and keep up, Michael…" An insinuating tone layered his voice, hinting at some obscure double meaning. Michael blinked in confusion, simply watching as his twin pocketed the galleon.

Harry's fingers pried Michael's from his wrist with surprising strength, and then he picked up his book and left the room without another word.

Michael sat back, sinking into the thick cushions, staring thoughtfully into the empty brick fireplace. Professor Dumbledore finally exited the training room, his eyes twinkling jovially as he moved to congratulate Michael once again on his first spell, but Michael wasn't listening attentively, his mind elsewhere.

_Try and keep up?_

… _With what?_

**.**

**.**

**I forgot to mention this, but did you guys know this story is already in thirteen communities? That's a record for my stories. This is my second most popular story! That's probably the only reason I have the inspiration to keep writing this, lol. I'm glad you all like it. In reality, I don't have much self-confidence. :PPP**

**Review, please! I sit down and put up with my crappy laptop for you guys, so I'd appreciate it if you told me whether you liked it or not. -_-**

**And I'm on my hundredth page in this story! :D**


	8. Chapter 8

Quick (really really short) update! Don't we all love those? The reason this is updating so quickly is because the phenomenal reviews you all have been giving me. One thing, however, that irked me… to the guest who called my story _cliché-ridden_: Are you serious? I'm not sure whether to laugh or actually get kind of ticked right now. The whole reason I wrote this freaking story was to attempt to avoid most of the obvious clichés in this genre. So I don't appreciate that little remark _at all. _If you don't like my story, then don't review, or at least have the decency to sign in to do it so I can respond to you in private. It's as simple as that.

Guest reviewers: Can those of you who haven't yet done it make a little nickname to use when reviewing? I'm get confused trying to keep you all straight, lol.

~Misconceptions~

Chapter 8

By: Dreams2Paper11

.

Voldemort

.

He held the charmed galleon lightly in his palm, so it wouldn't burn his pale skin if it decided to heat up again. It had taken two weeks for Harry to finally succumb to the temptation, and frankly, Voldemort was vaguely impressed. He'd thought that radiating his influence over the link while the boy slept would have made him break within days, but it seems he was wrong.

Oh well. He considered this as another research project. He was incredibly curious about the effects of a horcrux stored inside a living person. Obviously, he'd proved that he could exploit the link to transmit Harry fake emotions and thoughts, but perhaps it could be taken to another level? Would actual _visions_ travel across? Could he physically overshadow the boy, use him like a puppet? Was his horcrux choking Harry's magic by feeding off the child's negative emotions,?

Hmm. So many questions, and not enough answers.

Voldemort turned his face to the night sky, smirking as he straightened the collar of his Slytherin-green robes.

_But that'll all end tonight. _

Earlier that day, his galleon—he had conjured two of them and given one to the boy, and kept the other—had suddenly burned as though thrust into a blazing furnace, signaling that the child wanted to speak to him. Voldemort had immediately cancelled all meetings that day—_after all, nothing was more important than molding his horcrux properly—_and waited until nightfall to apparate into the forest that fringed the Potter household.

He'd memorized the landmarks on the map that he'd created upon last visit, so finding the spot where he'd first met the boy was no trouble at all. The river was shallower than the last time he had seen it, most likely suffering from the ongoing dry spell. Its quiet trickling background noise soothed his racing mind, helping him think. While he waited, he transfigured a fat boulder embedded into the damp earth into a throne suitable for his stature. He knew, with the moonlight dappling his form, that he cut a very impressive figure.

He was satisfied that he didn't have to wait long for the child to appear.

Harry slid into the clearing only minutes later, and Voldemort idly wondered if it was an occurrence of Fate or if the link was strong enough to pull the boy right to him. The child took slow, cautious movements, watching where he placed his feet—that was pleasing, Harry could develop that innate alertness into his dueling style.

"Hello," he called out, smiling affably, as he rose and swept out a hand in welcome. _Mustn't frighten him away. _

Harry looked up at the sound of his voice, immediately tensing. "H-hello, Ravolom…"

Voldemort took care not to visibly react to the name. He had told Harry that he was known as Ravolom, so Ravolom he would be, until he required no more use of the moniker. Or until he could reveal his true identity. He imagined the possible expressions that would appear on the boy's face when he found out… wonder? Awe? Fear?

Perhaps… even satisfaction?

"I'm correct in guessing that you've thought about my offer, yes?" He gracefully approached the child, catching him lightly by the shoulder and guiding him into the clearing, out of the dense shadows. Out of habit, he scanned the surrounding area—perhaps the child might have told someone about their first encounter. Yet, he noted with no small amount of satisfaction, there was no one besides himself and the boy.

Good. Very good.

"… Yes…" Harry answered, speaking so quietly it was barely a whisper.

At such a close proximity, Voldemort could sense Harry's emotions coiling just beyond the link—if he tapped it, he would be assaulted by the whirlwind of feelings. At the moment, however, he could only perceive faint impressions, mere wisps of emotions.

Doubt. Uncertainty.

He narrowed his eyes in concentration, breathing deeply.

Determination… spite… jealousy… a pinch of rebelliousness…

… Eagerness…

He carefully concealed the smirk. Perfect. He didn't even need to psychologically break down the child any further. Their last meeting had done wonders, it seemed.

"And your decision?" He settled himself comfortably into his throne, conjuring another smaller, but no less elegant throne beside his, angled slightly to face him. The thrones were symbolic—one day, Voldemort would be the King of the world, with Harry as his most loyal follower.

Harry sat down after a moment's hesitation, his hands locked stiff in his little lap.

His fate was sealed.

"I… I've decided to accept your offer to help cure my magic…" Harry spoke in a respectfully polite tone of voice, his head slightly bowed in deference. Acknowledging him as someone to be regarded fearfully.

Voldemort closed his eyes momentarily, grinning slightly. He'd forgotten how incredibly _satisfying_ it was to ensnare someone in his web of shadows.

"Oh?" He pretended to look surprised, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. He leaned forward, as if interested. "If I may ask, what prompted this choice?"

"My… my brother…" Here, Harry's posture tensed. His unique eyes flicked to the edge of the clearing, and he scooted forward as if to prepare to run. Voldemort remained smiling, but he fingered his wand, an immobilizing spell dancing on the tip of his tongue, ready if needed.

"…He's the boy-who-lived."

What a ridiculous title. If he had a bit of heart left, he might have felt pity for Michael.

Harry stared, waiting, obviously expecting for Voldemort to react visibly. And suddenly, Voldemort knew how to cement Harry to his side forever.

"So?" He drawled, wickedly drinking in the look of completely awed surprise that crossed Harry's face. The poor boy had probably expected him to jump up and down and beg for him to retrieve an autograph. The experience of someone favoring him over Michael must have been difficult for Harry to wrap his head around, because it took a few seconds for the shocked look to drain from his eyes.

Harry coughed, and then continued, rebuilding his composure. "So, my brother is getting a lot of training from—from a very important man, and I don't really fancy being left behind in the dust. I want to learn just as much as—no, _more _than my brother. But to do that… I need my magic."

"Ah, a competitive spirit, I see…" Voldemort noted. He hoped the old goat continued to teach Michael—if it was enough to drive Harry to him, then by all means, the senile fool had his blessing.

He tipped forward, resting his chin on his folded hands. "So, you want my help in unblocking your magic? I take it you've been following the advice I gave you…"

Ah, his advice.

Outwardly, his face was professionally blank, but inside, he was nearly cackling. Yes, everything he'd told the boy had been true—but that wasn't what was blocking his magic. Harry didn't need to know that it was really the horcrux was suffocating his core, hindering his magical growth.

Still though, he confidently assumed he would be able to do something about that.

"Will you submit to my Legilimency?" He enquired, tapping his chin absently. He had no doubt that the boy had attempted to research the topic, but many of the books about the ancient mind art were written in foreign languages, and though Harry was an unusually bright child, he doubted that he could read Latin fluently, let alone understand the theory presented in them.

Harry inhaled deeply, steadying himself. Voldemort found himself wishing he hadn't torn into the child's mind so brutally upon their first encounter. It seemed to have implanted within the child a deep-seated suspicion of the art. Harry's nimble fingers squeezed his kneecaps once, then relaxed.

"Yes," Harry murmured quietly.

"Hmm… tempting… but what will I get in return for helping you unlock your magic?"

_Hook_.

Harry looked startled, his eyes widening. "What—but you offered! You never mentioned a catch!"

"There is _always_ a catch," Voldemort admonished, smiling softly as Harry—though agitated—soaked up his words like a sponge. He did so _appreciate_ an eager pupil.

Harry was reigning in his emotions beautifully, but he was still waxing desperate. "I—if you want money, I have more than enough…"

Voldemort scoffed mentally. As if measly gold could compensate for his teachings. He'd need to work with the boy's compromising skills.

"No… not quite… money is so materialistic, after all…" He was honestly enjoying this. It was quite entertaining to watch Harry scramble to find something suitable for him.

Harry narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Then what _do _you want?" He seemed quite annoyed at being forced to barter, but Voldemort could care less. It was good practice for the child. He sat back, looking at the star-dotted sky, gnawing his lip as though pensive.

"Well… I've always wanted for someone to impart my admittedly bountiful magical knowledge unto…" he turned to look at Harry, raising his eyebrows in question. "Would you perhaps know of anyone who would flourish under my teachings?"

Harry openly gaped.

_Hook, line… _

Voldemort snapped his fingers decisively, faking a look of epiphany, smiling triumphantly. "Oh, I know! Your brother, Michael… I'm sure Dumbledore is not fit to instruct him… it would be an easy task to take over his education, yes?"

A look of utter outrage, tinged by disbelief, darkened Harry's features. Voldemort could nearly taste the fury that swirled in the air—it was sweetened by his growing sense of victory.

"_Michael doesn't need a teacher!"_ Harry exploded, leaping to his feet, sweeping his hand in a useless gesture of anger. "He already _has_ one!"

Voldemort barely kept his crimson eyes from slitting.

_Watch your tone, boy. _

The child's throne sank into the ground, reverting back to its boulder form, forcing Harry to keep standing; a small, background reprimand for his unruliness. Harry would soon learn that good behavior and a healthy dose of respect could carry him a long way.

"Well, then who do you suggest?" His cool tone seemed to bring Harry back to his senses. The child straightened his shoulders, tilting his chin up in defiance. His eyes were like blazing green flames, but at least he no longer panted like a madman.

For a second, silence reigned as Harry bit his lower lip—thoughts and plans were dashing through his mind so fast that the impressions transmitted over the link resembled chaotically flashing lights. Voldemort stared flatly at him, taking shallow breaths. His tongue snuck out and licked the corner of his lips in anticipation.

Harry seemed to make up his mind. His angelic features hardened with fierce resolve.

"…I—I could do it! I know I could—I—_I'm better than him!"_

_Hook, line, and sinker. _

But he couldn't agree so quickly… it would look suspicious.

"I don't know… I'm not sure if you'd be up to it…"

Harry quivered with restrained emotion. "I am! _I am! _I could—if you would just—"

The '_give me a chance' _went unspoken, but the look of desperation and indignation that was painted so openly across his face spoke volumes. Voldemort tipped his head to the side, considering. He could say yes right now—the boy certainly looked despairing enough—but maybe he could take it a little farther… It was eerily like playing with a Yoyo. He'd wind the boy up then let him go, and see how far he went before he came springing back to the holder of the string.

"No," he said, matter-of-factly, and he stood, turning, grasping the edge of his cloak, smirking darkly all the while. A stunned sort of quietness muted the forest sounds. There was not a stir of movement behind him. The child might have vanished for all he knew, it was so silent.

He raised his arm, as if preparing to apparate with a swirl of his cloak, but then a soft hand touched his arm. There was a faint crinkling of leaves behind him. Voldemort looked over his shoulder. The sight that met his eyes made his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

Harry had submissively dropped to his knees, his dark head bowed. "Please," he uttered softly, all scraps of pride having fled him. He trembled like a leaf. "_Please_."

And then Voldemort was struck by the reality that this boy—the unknown savior—was really just a very lonely eight-year-old child, desperate to be seen by _anybody_.

After a moment of soaking in the sight (after all, it wasn't everyday that the person who had temporarily defeated you kneeled at your feet) he crouched, smiling kindly. Harry stared at the forest floor, hiding behind his dark, spiky bangs, still shaking almost unnoticeably.

Voldemort reached out and lightly tilted his head back, hungrily devouring the pure despair that clouded that emerald gaze.

"Will you submit to my every teaching, no matter what it is?" He breathed lightly, leaning in close to the boy's ear.

A small, tremulous 'yes' squirmed past the boy's lips, and Voldemort smirked deeply.

"Will you promise to never defy me?"

Harry's magical aura seeped into the air, mixing with Voldemort's, forming a powerful, binding bond—a wizard's oath.

"_Yes."_

"Will you do every task I set before you whole-heartedly?" He was barely whispering now, near-frenzied with excitement himself. The ring of magic tightened around them. Voldemort could feel it sparking along his skin like tiny static shocks.

"_Yes."_

"Will you swear to work your hardest and push yourself to your limits every day?"

"_Yes!"_

There was a small spark as the magic suddenly sank into their skin, traveling down, down, down to their cores, tying them together forever. For a moment, Voldemort simply knelt, basking in the deep sense of accomplishment.

Dumbledore had doomed the entire wizarding world. The war was already won.

After a period of silence, he stood, pulling the limp child up with him.

"Now…" he said, reclining on his throne once more, resting his chin in his pale hand. His eyes gleamed. "Let's start our first session, hmm?"

.

.

…

Please don't kill me. I've always wanted to do a cliffhanger. REMINDER: Plot is going to kick up a LOT more now, so those of you worried about the pace, relax.  We're getting things going, now, starting with this chapter.

HARRY WILL NOT BE SOME CRAP DEATH EATER, I promise. There will be slight manipulations or amendments made by the characters to the rules later on in the story, I swear. COLDBLUE: there will be time skips. However, not anything as huge as yearly ones. And yes, I plan on having Harry use parseltongue much more expansively than he did in the books. Yes, he will probably learn to fight using both wands.

To kokylinda2: Oh please, are you kidding? I'm not mad at all! I love (POSITIVE, CONSTRUCTIVE) criticism (although no, that is not an invitation for you all to start nagging everything I write, lol), and I completely agree with everything you said. You see, both my parents have a degree in psychology, so I've been raised to look at everything form every angle, which is why I spiral off sometimes into overload-mode when I write, haha.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: My only excuse for the absence is my unfortunate proneness to developing writer's block at completely inappropriate moments in my stories, one of the most hectic months I've ever experienced, and horrible weeks and weeks of stress. I hope you all are had a better week than I did. :/ NOTE: I've pretty much decided to employ SMALL time skips, but I WILL be going in-depth through most of the first book—or at least, that's what I plan, unless everyone hates it. After that, things will rapidly speed up a lot. Chill, you guys—the story is still building, lol. ALSO: Some of you smart, wonderful people have finally noticed that Harry seems very mood-swingy. There is a reason behind that, one that is actually kind of simple and will develop much more as the story wears on. DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE WIZARD'S OATH HARRY MADE LAST CHAP. That was planned, and yes, I do know what I'm doing, and no, there won't be 'plot holes' because I am AWARE of what it means. Trust me a bit.**

**To the guest reviewer (honestly, why is it always a guest who flames?) named OldHermitBen, who said _"Ah, the old I hold my story's updates in exchange for reviews. I admit that you lost any respect from me and I will not be continuing to read this story, because of it. Also, I do like Dudley in this story, it's a shame his name was changed to Michael."_**

**I'm going to be the better person in this situation and respond graciously. First, you are deeply mistaken, as I have never in my life held stories for ransom. That is actually a pet peeve of mine. Second, if you're going to insult my story, have the decency to log in first. I personally don't believe I've made Michael to be exactly like Dudley—he's not fat, for one thing, and his personality is softer, not as entirely harsh on the outside. And fine, whatever—we do see Dudley experience a small change of heart in the late HP books, so if you think they're alike, I guess that's fine. But apparently you aren't reading further, so whatever. I expect you feel a bit embarrassed now upon realizing that I've never held a story's update ransom. I even updated in like, three freaking days in a row in the beginning!**

**Sorry for the heinously long AN but it was necessary.**

**Ugh, I'm stressed.**

**.**

**Chapter 9**

**.**

"_Now… let's start our first session, hmm?"_

Harry was startled. "You mean—now? As in, right now?"

Ravolom arched a delicate eyebrow, smirking amusedly. The man seemed very happy. _Very _happy. Did it have something to do with those weird promises he'd just made? They'd been very specific and questionably phrased—but that was okay, because Harry didn't care about whether he broke them or not.

They were just promises, right?

And promises were simply words, and really, when you thought about it, mere, normal words themselves carry no physical restrictions.

… But what had been that electrifying tingle he'd fel—

"I don't believe the term 'now' refers to anything other than the very present moment," Ravolom noted, chuckling dryly. Harry privately thought Ravolom had a very rich, soothing chuckle. He wished the man would do it more often.

Flushing, he ducked his head. "Right, right…"

"Come… walk with me…" Ravolom rose from his throne, resting his cold hand on Harry's thin shoulder. His coldly beautiful black marble throne dissolved into wisps of dark smoke. Harry watched the mist dissipate with hungry eyes.

_One day, I'll be able to do that. _

"Are you going to teach me a spell, sir?" Harry asked, trotting by the man's heels as they left the clearing. Ravolom's long legs lent him a swift, elegant gait, and Harry felt like a newborn puppy toddling in his wake in comparison.

"With what?" Ravolom inquired casually, stooping momentarily to push back a branch. He let it swing back into place after he'd passed and Harry was forced to quickly duck in order not to get whapped in the face. "You have no wand, and, as much as you most likely hate hearing this, you are nowhere near the level to do wandless spells."

Harry's ivory-skinned hand rose, fingering the small pouch that hung around his neck, hidden under his shirt.

"I—well, I…"

"We'll have to fix that ridiculous stutter of yours," Ravolom coolly noted, pausing to face him. "You must learn to speak in public and always maintain an aura of calm collectiveness."

Harry's face darkened, as he thought of his father telling him to "spit it out" the night when he asked Dumbledore for lessons. Immediately, the goal to improve his public interactions was written on the mental checklist he'd formed in his head.

He tipped his head back, squared his shoulders, and looked Ravolom right in the eyes (and that was quite a difficult thing to do: staring into those piercing, molten-lava-red pits.)

"I have a wand," He stated plainly, and he lifted the pouch from around his neck. His fingers worked at the fastenings as he talked. "It's cedar, dragon heartstring, quite hard, and twelve and-a-half inches."

Then he was pulling out the box, flicking off the lid, gazing once more at that beautiful wand—_and remembering the consequential pain that resulted from its usage_—and suddenly he couldn't breathe very well. Adrenalin pumped through his veins. He thought vaguely, _this is it. I'm going to learn magic. I'm really actually going to learn magic. _

Ravolom swooped over the wand faster than Harry could jerk away, his long fingers picking it up and skimming along its surface experimentally.

"My, my, Harry, you are quite the capable young boy…" Ravolom breathed as his eyes roved hungrily over the dark, red-tinted wood. A beam of pride and uncertain pleasure shot through Harry's body at the praise. He could not remember the last time he had been praised.

It felt nice. He liked it almost as much as keeping secrets.

Ravolom suddenly flicked out his own wand, trailing its pale, gleaming white tip over Harry's wand, eyes closed, muttering strange things under his breath. It possessed an eerie sort of intensity, a low, musical hum that lulled Harry's senses.

A soft, radiant white glow encased his wand, shining only for a few seconds. Ravolom's eyes snapped open, the glow faded, and a most certainly dark, pleased smile morphed his handsome features.

"And not even possessing a trace," he murmured to himself, his eyes twinkling madly. "Tell me," he said suddenly, his attention once again focused on Harry, who started at the unexpected attention. "How did you obtain this?"

Harry did not see the point in lying. "I went to Ollivanders, looking for my family because they were buying my twin a wand, but they'd already left, but Mr. Ollivander refused to let me leave without giving me a wand."

He pointed at his wand, and Ravolom must have seen the flash of longing in his eyes, for he pressed it back into Harry's palm a second later. Harry rolled it between his fingers as he talked. "This is actually my second one."

Ravolom's slitted eyes grew fractionally in surprise. Harry did not wait for the gesture to continue. "My first one was a phoenix feather core, holly wood, and eleven inches. But Mr. Ollivander told me to let him hold onto it so it wouldn't look suspicious when I go school shopping for—for Hogwarts"—and oh how satisfying to realize that yes, he would be eligible for it, because _he could do magic_—"and instead, he let me choose another wand to use in the meantime."

He was very out of breath when he finished.

Ravolom's hand found its way up to his chin, which he held musingly as he pondered. "A secondary wand…" he muttered aloud, "how advantageous."

"So can I learn a spell?" Harry asked eagerly, his fingers tapping his wand in excitement. But his heart plummeted when Ravolom shook his head negative. "But—but why?" He struggled to say, crestfallen.

"I am planning to begin our first Legilimency session," Ravolom explained. With a graceful flick of his hands, he gestured to the thick, silent woods around them. "That is why we moved our surroundings. The sound of the river in the background would be distracting for you."

"We're doing it now?" Harry said in shock. Oh Merlin, he wasn't ready for this.

"But of course. One cannot do magic when their magic is blocked, after all." Ravolom must have seen Harry's expression, for he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder and smiled encouragingly. "Don't worry, Harry," he said soothingly, and instantly, Harry felt a little better about the whole thing. "It won't hurt a bit."

Harry nodded, suddenly feeling inexplicably dazed as warm feelings vibrated through his youthful body. "…Okay…"

Ravolom smirked. "Excellent. We shall begin immediately." His honeyed voice turned business-like as he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. "Lay down and close your eyes."

Harry did so. The leaves from last summer crinkled beneath him, pressing into his clothes, but he could not bring himself to care. Ravolom knelt over him, his fingertips pressing lightly on Harry's temples. The cool touch was soothing.

"Breathe slowly, now." Harry followed the instructions, relaxing his muscles. He sensed rather than heard his breathing immediately fall in tandem with Ravolom's, forming a strange sort of unity between them.

"_Legilimens," _a voice breathed quietly, echoing in Harry's ears, inside his _head_, and Harry's mind instantly scattered itself softly, like dandelion seeds in a light breeze. No pain seized him in its cruel grip, however. A little bit of _something_ slipped inside his head as easily as water flowed over stones in a creek, but it did not feel as intrusive as last time.

Rather, it felt… kind of… kind of…

Harry sensed whatever force that anchored him to consciousness dissolve, and he drifted sluggishly, lost in a sea of thrumming, slowly pulsing content.

-Voldemort-

He watched his new protégé's body go completely limp as he mentally put the boy in a deep sleep. This would be much easier if Harry slept through the process.

He had a few theories as to why he had been put in agony upon his last entrance into the boy's mind. Perhaps an unconscious defense? Or maybe, at the time, Harry had classified him as a threat, and his mind reacted accordingly?

Whatever it was, it didn't matter. He had work to do.

He dove into the child's mind with the ease of a hot knife slicing through butter. A sense of falling accompanied his entrance, but he mastered the sudden coiling sensation in his gut and forced it aside. Colors and shapes immediately winked out of existence as he felt his own eyelids close in the outside world.

The layers of Harry's mind had almost fully healed themselves from his last visit, the ragged holes skinning over like scabs forming over old wounds. Still though, the frayed edges were darkened, as if they had been heavily charred, and Voldemort smirked—or at least, he felt like it; one's consciousness couldn't really _smirk_, after all—as the walls shivered when he teasingly brushed his mind along them. Trembling, they widened slowly, showing little regard for the healing tendrils that tore in two as the mouths of the wounds opened again to give him passage.

As if from far away, Voldemort felt the beginnings of pain stir deep within Harry's mind as it willingly tore itself apart for him, but he snuffed it out softly, settling the boy into an even deeper stage of slumber. The atmosphere darkened remarkably as the healing threads sank back into the walls, refusing to resume their work. Perhaps they knew he would only break them open again upon leaving.

Dark, twisting trails of smoke wreathed Voldemort's blurred shade-form like ghostly, battered ribbons—bad memories, he recognized—but Voldemort pushed them away when they butted his shoulders gently, like a dog seeking its master's reassurance. As much as he would have liked to play with the child's head and forcibly gain admittance to some of the child's darker memories, he had a goal in mind, and he was always focused.

Always.

The process repeated itself as he leisurely delved deeper into the child's mind. The solid walls of each layer nearly tore themselves in two for him, prying apart like the black jaws of some beast's gaping maw.

He reached the core with no trouble at all. When he was near enough, Voldemort willed his body to form. Granules of a dark substance flaked into existence, surrounding his loose being in a fierce whirlwind. As the winds died, he stood there in a form that resembled his physical appearance down to every pore, although dressed in very expensive black dress robes.

Similar to his last experience, the inky trails of memories solidified themselves into chains, but instead of attempting to stop him, they fanned around him, herding him closer to the pulsating gray orb. The mass of black gunk that enveloped the core greeted him courteously, affectionately extending a tendril to wrap around his cold wrist. He raised his hands, cupping the orb in his palms. The dim white orb shuddered at his touch, streaks of black shooting across its surface like lightning.

Voldemort hooked a slim finger underneath one of the strands wrapped around the orb and gently pulled it loose. Not entirely, of course. Obviously, it remained in his best interest to keep most of his heavy influence on the boy.

The strand was unusually hardened and pliant at the same time. It refused to be moved at first, and Voldemort sensed a faint feeling of puzzlement. Why would its master be depriving it of its food source? It obeyed him after a second's hesitation, however, reluctantly peeling away. Voldemort left its base attached, just enough contact that it could still feed, but not enough that it would entirely stunt the magical growth.

Another strand instantly slithered into the former one's place, flattening itself in an attempt to fill the tiny gap. Voldemort was undeterred. He had expected this. Reprovingly, he gave the new thread the same treatment, and it too haltingly carried out his commands, slowly stripping itself from the floating orb. The detached ends waved sluggishly in the dark void, behaving like long hair under water.

Upon close inspection, Voldemort noticed that there must have been hundreds of the small, inky strands hungrily leeching energy from the core. This task could not be completed within one simple session. Already, he sensed that at least half an hour had passed in the conscious world. The unimpressive achievement was perfectly fine. He planned to draw their sessions out, enough so that he could begin teaching the boy and still keep the enticing offer of healing the child's magic.

He disconnected ten more of the little threads, then turned and glided away from the dark void, ascending through the gaps in the mind's layers.

Exiting the mind was like breaking the surface of water, and he inhaled slowly as sensations—real, genuine ones, not muted mockeries—slammed his consciousness back into his body.

His muscles had grown stiff from their locked position of kneeling over Harry's body, and he retracted his hands, flexing them to dispel the soreness. He rolled his skull until he heard a sharp click, humming lightly as he worked the soreness from his neck. Then he flicked his wand, transfiguring the layer of rotting leaves into a plush, deliciously soft rug.

Harry had not awoken from the sleep spell, and Voldemort touched the child's small chest lightly, taking a moment to savor the feel of that feeble heart sending slow vibrations through his fingertips. One simple spell could end the boy's life right then and there, and Harry would be helpless to stop it. The exquisite feeling of control over the boy's life awakened a sense of malevolent pleasure inside his blackened heart.

He lifted the enchantment a moment later.

Harry's head lolled to the side, brushing his cheek against the thick rug. A small _mmmm_ buzzed through his parted lips as he sighed, nuzzling the soft fabric. The boy's little fingers twisted themselves in the featherlike fibers. Voldemort watched in mild amusement. If only the child knew how much he looked like a helpless kitten when he slept, with his downy head of black hair, small, slightly upturned pink nose, and tightly curled body.

Harry's eyelids lifted languidly seconds later. The pupils were contracted severely, easily drowning in the burnished, reddish-brown irises. The color resembled dried blood. Voldemort paid full attention as the dazed pupils enlarged themselves to their normal size. The startling red color gave one rippling flare, as if in defiance, and then faded, returning to their regular dazzling-green hue.

_A shame_, Voldemort decided. The dark red irises lent the boy such a haunting, otherworldly appearance.

Harry suppressed a mild yawn and sat up quickly, dashing a hand across his eyes to rid the sleepiness from them.

"Did you fix my magic?" Harry mumbled drowsily, slumping over and running a hand through his thick hair. Voldemort smiled. It was a slick, poisonously sweet smile. Yet the darkness provided by the thick leaf cover dappled his face in darkness, concealing the dangerous gleam in the scathing red eyes.

"I have begun the process. The situation is much worse than I had originally thought." Voldemort sighed, as though regretful. "I'm afraid that it's going to take more than just a few mere sessions to heal your core."

Harry's hand drifted to his temples, and a look of surprise momentarily crossed his youthful face. "It doesn't hurt," he said, befuddled. Voldemort chuckled. The sound was low, brass, and musical.

"Of course the legilimency didn't hurt, Harry," he said smoothly, smiling charmingly. "I promised it wouldn't hurt, didn't I?" He lifted the boy to his feet, keeping a long-fingered hand on the thin shoulder until the child could stand upright without collapsing.

"Now… I believe it would be best for us both to return to our homes. You require a good night's sleep."

"Wait, that's it?" Harry asked, his small brow furrowing in surprise. "Can I start doing magic yet?"

"No," Voldemort shot him down a second later. "Your core is unstable right now, still assimilating the changes I've begun to do. I will tell you when you are able to."

He busied himself with his cloak, adjusting the silver fastenings as he prepared to apparate, unsure if he should say anything else. Goodbyes had never been his forte. Usually he just sneered before sending an _Avada Kedavra_ on its way.

A small hand caught the tassels of his sleeve and he paused. Harry was looking at him with intelligent eyes—eyes far too cognizant for someone his age. Absently, Voldemort reflected on how he rather liked those pretty eyes. Slytherin green. They only looked better in red.

"Are you leaving now?" Harry asked, and Voldemort wondered if, perhaps, the excitement of having an adventure, of doing something not dictated by his parents, was what made the child slightly breathless.

"Yes," he said simply a moment later, and his cold hand moved to dislodge the small one clinging to his robes. The boy's skin was feverishly warm compared to his own.

"Will you be back?"

He smiled crookedly. "If you wish it. I am here to lend my services, after all."

Harry nodded, then slowly withdrew his arm. Voldemort lingered one last moment to hungrily memorize the boy's features, then turned sharply, grinding his heel into the dirt, and apparated.

**.**

**Harry**

**.**

Harry could not help but laugh as he watched his godfather attack his chocolate ice cream, very much resembling a dog in how he licked so enthusiastically. Sirius paused long enough to point the cone at him. A drip of ice cream oozed down the side, gathering at the rim of the waffle cone, and Harry watched it amusedly, internally wondering how long it would take to fall.

"Eat-chur ife-cweam!" Sirius said around a mouthful of the sweet treat, pretending to scold. Harry smiled—his first genuine smile in days—and obediently picked up his ice cream (he'd asked for his in a bowl; on a hot summer day such as this one, it was a much more sensible option). As he brought the loaded spoon to his mouth, his thoughts drifted.

It had been a week since Harry's first session with Ravolom. He'd been going back every night. Each session lasted around four hours, usually conducted in the dead of night to the wee hours of morning. Dark shadows had begun to form under his eyes, but Ravolom had cleverly cast a charm on him that concealed the consequences of lack of sleep. He'd called it a glamour. Harry had carefully catalogued the word in his list of "things to research later". It was certainly a useful, handy little charm to know.

"Harry?"

Harry banished his musings, looking with alert eyes at his godfather. The man visibly deflated, looking like a kicked puppy.

"You didn't even hear the punch-line of the joke," he whined, nibbling sadly on the rim of his cone. Harry smiled consolingly.

"Sorry Siri, I was just thinking," he said, and before Sirius could ask him what exactly he'd been thinking about, he asked, wincing as the first store name he could think of rolled off his tongue, "Can we go to Zonko's?" The store, while primarily popular in Hogsmeade, did possess a branch in Diagon Alley, and Sirius eagerly agreed.

Harry did not particularly like the joke shop, due to being on the receiving end of his brother and father's pranks that often involved their merchandise, but even he had to admit that whoever had invented the charms for the shop's items was a genius.

Sirius paid Fortescue for their ice creams, and, slightly sheepish at the shopkeeper's reproving glance, banished the ice cream drips puddled all along his side of the round, shaded little table. As they left the shop, Sirius let out a joyful, barking laugh and suddenly scooped Harry up, unexpectedly holding him close in a hug. Harry squirmed slightly in surprise—he felt like it had been a while since he had been hugged so enthusiastically.

But then he melted into the touch, laying his head down on his godfather's broad shoulder in a rare moment of childish indulgence. He was eight, a little bit too old to be carried like this, he knew, but he was so awfully small anyways, he knew he only looked six.

"I've missed ya, pup," Siri whispered playfully, his breath stirring the hair near Harry's ear. "Everyone's been too busy, lately. We need a vacation."

Harry's insides twisted slightly. He couldn't take a leave of absence; he couldn't just ditch Ravolom's lessons like that. They were far too precious, far too important. But he nodded his head slightly into the silk of Sirius's robe, fisting his hand in the expensive fabric, complacently playing his part of the sweet-tempered little boy.

Siri set him down a few seconds later, pausing just long enough to wink roguishly at a passing attractive witch before he resumed his jaunty stride again. Harry rolled his eyes fondly at his godfather's antics. Sirius's swinging hand caught his, enfolding around it and squeezing once.

"I haven't been around much lately, I know," the older man said anxiously, and Harry automatically translated that to a few months of his godfather's absence. "And I'm sorry for it, but—well, you're an intelligent kid—things are stirring up again… bad things. I've been dreadfully busy at the ministry."

As Sirius was one of the top aurors, Harry knew this was plausible and accepted it without much thought.

"But you know how much I love you right?" They stopped under one of the store's awnings. Harry turned an inquisitive eye upon his godfather, silently questioning his sudden emotional bout.

Sirius watched him tensely. Upon seeing Harry's confusion, he added, "it's just… Lily told me you've been really quiet for the past week…" he suddenly turned half-joking, as if to lighten the somber atmosphere, "…and I'm just being the overly-attached godfather that I am."

Harry smiled widely, standing on his tiptoes as he wrapped his arms around the man's middle, feeling nothing but warm, unconditional love for his godfather, so strong it curled his toes. He buried his face in Siri's robes, his throat clogged with an uncharacteristic surge of emotion.

Nobody had ever cared for him like his godfather, and he suddenly felt awful for not showing his appreciation of it.

After a second, Siri's hand descended into his hair, carding gently through the strands.

"I love you, too," Harry croaked out a few moments later, when he had sufficiently cleared his throat.

Both of them were content to stay like that for a few minutes more before they parted to enter Zonko's.

**.**

**Once again, terribly sorry about the long absence. Some of you have been clamoring for some more Sirius and Harry scenes, so I put in this little tidbit at the end to lighten the mood and serve as a preview, because Sirius will definitely be popping up more and more in the future.**

**Thank you for the support, everyone, and merry early Easter!**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: I'm alive. Everyone who cares, I toast this glass of applejuice in my hand to you. A nod of thanks to everyone who reviewed. **

**By the way, and I have said this earlier, THIS STORY IS NOT 100 PERCENT CLICHÉ FREE. Clichés are not necessarily a bad thing, if done right. What I mean is that I'm trying to spin a fresh angle on the thing. **

**IF YOU DON'T LIKE MY STORY, THEN DON'T READ, AND CERTAINLY DON'T REVIEW, because right now, I have enough crap to deal with. I'm getting sick of the nitpicking. All it does is wear down my enthusiasm to write, which is partially why this chapter took so long to get out. **

**In happier news, this is the long-awaited Hogwarts chapter. And my birthday is in, like, a week. So, a toast to myself as well, I guess…**

**DISCLAIMER: Me no own Harry Potter. If you recognize dialogue or snippets of description, I transferred them from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone into this measly fanfiction!**

**Coldblue: Listen, I appreciate that you like my story. Really, I do. But please stop leaving me pushy reviews to update. It does get kind of annoying after a while. I appreciate that you care, but I _will update WHEN I update. _And mentioning that I should update Misconceptions in reviews for my other stories is slightly annoying as well. **

**I like you, please understand that I do. Just be a little more patient. **

**.**

**Chapter 10: The Sorting**

**.**

**Two Years Later**

Harry opened his eyes.

Ravolom's face swam into view above him, his sharp angles blurred. Moonlight glinted off his immaculate black hair. His alabaster skin glowed.

Harry blinked a few times and pushed himself into a sitting position, limbs trembling, feeling slightly disoriented, but pleased and content on a deep, wholesome level, one that saturated his bones and flesh and made them heavy. He suddenly felt loose, like his knotted muscles had received a good massage.

He always felt that way after Ravolom's sessions.

"That's the last one, Harry," Ravolom said softly, watching as Harry dusted himself off. "Your magic is completely usable now." His pale lips stretched in a smile. "Congratulations…"

It amazed Harry that Ravolom's rich tenor voice, even after two years, was like rich velvet, or maybe a roll of sleek silk uncurling through his ears. The man should've been a politician.

Harry grinned in elated triumph and hauled himself into a standing position. His hand wandered to the black sheath belted around his slender waist, one finger stroking the slim piece of wood. Ravolom's icy hand closed over his wrist a moment later, pulling it away.

"Try," he requested, "I want you to try it wandlessly. We shall see what you have learned." He loosed his fingers and drifted a few paces away, silent as smoke.

Harry turned. His grin widened, baring teeth, reflecting the watery moonlight that penetrated the thick forest canopy. He planted one booted foot in the loamy earth, nosing the other a few inches ahead. He inhaled, exhaled, adjusted his breathing like Ravolom had taught him to, until it was in tune with the untapped energy bolting eagerly through his veins. He breathed in through his nose as he outstretched his arms, fingers splayed, palms facing the surrounding forest.

He focused all of his willpower on his hands, forcefully turning them into magical conduits. Frisky energy skittered down his arms, tingling pleasantly. No more pain. He looked through the gaps in his fingers, gazing at a young oak tree with fully blossomed leaves.

He inhaled, closed his eyes.

His palms warmed with energy. He could feel something electrifying beneath his skin.

He exhaled. Everything seemed to speed up. He twisted on the sole of the foot planted firmly in the ground, spinning, clenching his fists as he twirled so that the fingers curled in like claws. The tree shuddered visibly in immediate response to his dance-like movements, shaking hard enough that green leaves immediately showered the ground. Magic flowed from his fingertips to the tree, completing the circuit.

"_Defodio!" _ He muttered through clenched teeth.

An ear-piercing _crack _resonated throughout the somber forest as the tree shuddered from its crown to its roots, dislodging another flurry of leaves. A deep slash suddenly gouged a horizontal canyon in the oak's trunk, shattering bark. A high-pitched creaking noise grated on Harry's ears as the tree tipped forward precariously. The weight of its leafy head worked against it, aiding gravity to topple its upper half, blocking the moonlight completely as it loomed over Harry.

With another smooth, graceful movement, Harry lifted both hands skyward, fingers firmly closed. The tree's descent halted jerkily.

"_Wingardium Leviosa," _ he murmured, more relaxed, and slowly moved both hands to the side, bringing them down by his waist. The tree's severed upper half rolled lazily to the side, following his lithe movements, and settled gently on the loosely packed ground.

Harry ended the connection. The flow of magic ceased, leaving him exhausted, but smug. A sense of total empowerment filled Harry, strong enough to make him curl his toes inside his boots.

A hand landed lightly on his shoulder. Harry turned and beamed upwards at Ravolom. His mentor gave him a pleased sideways smile as he stared at the wrecked tree.

"Well done," he complimented silkily. "Only missing… ah… _one_ touch…" His bloody eyes crinkled in focus. Immediately, as though by the intensity of his gaze, the heap on the ground burst into silent, smokeless flames.

They reclined at a conjured table. Ravolom poured himself a glass of fine red wine, vanishing the elegant glass bottle when he'd appropriately filled his crystal-stemmed glass. Harry had water.

"To your Hogwarts letter," Ravolom said, tipping his head in recognition. Harry raised his glass.

"To your tutelage," he returned politely. They toasted. As the glasses clinked, they emitted a clear, bell-like sound that seemed out of place in the dark forest, next to a dying tree.

Harry sipped his water, entertained by the hypnotic flames, which licked greedily up and down the short trunk, invading the deep cracks in the bark. Sap sizzled in the inner ring of green wood. Leaves blackened and curled up like a dying old man, shapeless shadows in the fierceness of the blaze. Sparks swirled into the starry sky.

There was no conversation, only amicable quiet. The sharp staccato sounds of wood popping and collapsing in the furious flames were oddly pleasant to listen to. The fire illuminated Harry's face, reflecting eerily off the polished lens of his glasses. It was as though his eyes had disappeared and been replaced by two burning pits.

They drank and watched the tree burn.

**.**

**At King's Cross**

**.**

Harry couldn't stop the smile from breaking out on his face when he passed through the very-solid-looking barrier that was Platform nine and three-quarters.

A shrill train whistle pierced his eardrums. The Hogwarts express train looked exactly like he had envisioned it—gleaming scarlet, polished and looking brand new.

"We're late, we're late!" He felt his mother shove him forward in her haste, tugging his loaded trolley out of his hands and darting ahead with it. Harry shuffled to the side as his father entered through the barrier, irately fixing his hair as he hopped along, one shoe untied and trailing laces.

"Blasted woman," he grumbled, winking at Harry as he knelt to fix the laces of his brown leather shoe. "If we'd only taken the flying cars, we would have been here already…!" James suddenly tipped over, landing flat on his face as Sirius bounded through the wall-that-really-wasn't-a-wall, letting out a bark-like sound of surprise as he tripped over his longtime best friend. Both landed in a clumsy mess on the floor.

Harry moved further away, grinning at the pretzel-like sight as they untangled themselves.

Remus entered, sparing them a glance and sighing good-naturedly as he stooped to lend James a hand. Sirius dusted off James' shoulders and James patted down Sirius' jacket, brushing off clinging pieces of lint as they grinned at one another.

"Now," exclaimed Sirius, suddenly pulling Harry to his side, rubbing his knuckles in his head, gripping James' arm tightly with one hand. "James, your children are leaving—I know, I know, you need to be strong! You know I'll always be here, with a prank to cheer you up and a box or two of Exploding Tissues—oof!"

James had planted an elbow in his stomach to shut him up. "Oh come off it, you fat piece of lard."

Sirius sucked in his stomach, indignant. "I can't believe you would even say such a thing!"

"The pie last night?"

"Well, Lils made it, you can't blame me—"

"And the celebratory scones?"

"Oh come on, I had two—!"

"—Two dozen, and I believe you still managed to eat Harry's slice of tart afterwards—"

"Dad," Harry interrupted, anxiously shuffling from one foot to the other. "Dad, I think the train's leaving."

"Right you are, Harry, right you—the train's leaving, _bloody he- __the train's leaving_, Harry _RUN!"_

Harry waved once to Sirius and Remus and set off like a shot, speeding to the scarlet train as it gave one last piercing whistle. He flashed by his mother, who blew him a kiss and gave him a teary wave. He jumped at the last second, landing cat-like on the railing, and slipped inside, just as the train gave a small shudder and began to move.

He passed by Michael in the train's narrow corridor, who was leaning out of the window to let their mother give him one last good-bye kiss. Michael, it seemed, had already claimed the very first compartment. His things were already spread out on the seat. Neville was inside, looking at his pet toad held in pudgy cupped hands. The cheerful boy flashed him a kind smile when Harry passed.

Weren't the first few compartments reserved for the prefects?

He ended up settling in one of the middle compartments, far away from Michael but close enough that he wouldn't be the last one to exit the train. The compartment seats were padded benches. He claimed the seat next to the window and loosened the moleskin pouch tied around his neck. He had stuffed it with books and games like Exploding Snap so that he wouldn't get bored during the ride.

The compartment door slid open.

Draco Malfoy slipped inside, already dressed in his billowing black Hogwarts robe. Everything about his appearance was immaculate, including the silver lining that had been tailored on his robes.

"Dreadful Muggles," were the first words spat out of his mouth as he reclined gracefully on the seat opposite Harry. "The way they crowded the station—honestly! One would think they were bumbling idiots!"

Harry smiled. "Hello Draco."

Draco nodded at him, his flint-gray eyes falling on the opened pouch in Harry's lap. "Did you bring games? I've been waiting _ages_ for a good game of chess."

As Harry set up the pieces for their game, he thought back to two summers ago, right after his ninth birthday, when Draco's first correspondence had landed on his breakfast plate, carried through the open window by an intimidating eagle owl. Harry hadn't been able to take Lucius Malfoy up on his offer of visiting Malfoy Manor, so the letter had come as quite a surprise. Luckily, it had just been Harry in the kitchen—everyone else had been elsewhere in the huge Potter Mansion.

Ever since then, he and Draco had exchanged letters steadily, growing and firming a hesitant friendship. Harry thought Draco was too extreme in his hatred of Muggles. Draco thought he didn't hate enough. Even so, they quickly learned to move past that point. After all, Draco had claimed in one of his letters, not _everything_ had to be about Muggles. They weren't worth that much importance.

Ravolom was pleased with their friendship and had encouraged it. _It's about time you make a worthwhile friend, _he'd said.

_Why? _Harry had asked curiously. _Do you know him? _

_Of course not, _Ravolom scoffed. _Not personally. But his family is exorbitantly wealthy, and has lots of connections. Always make allies in high places. _

This was his first face-to-face meeting with Draco. The boy looked exactly like Harry had imagined him—narrow face, pale skin, white-blonde hair and cold gray eyes. Sharp chin always tipped up in condescension. Expensive clothes.

His first friend.

He absently brushed his fingers over his brand-new Phoenix-and-Holly wand, snugly fit in the double wand sheath, next to his faithful dragon heartstring one. Draco had told him somewhere during their correspondence that it was natural to have a backup wand in the wizarding world. Even Harry's father had one. He kept it in his study, in a large mahogany desk.

"So, you know how to play, right?" Draco asked, nodding to the board. Harry nodded, spinning it so that Draco had the white set. Draco raised a thin eyebrow.

The compartment temporarily fell into shadow as the train passed a fringe of tall trees that blocked the sunlight.

Harry let the little-light-good-boy mask chip and crack, revealing an inner personality cultivated by years of hard training with a powerful dark wizard. The smile was dark, dangerous, a promise of mischief to come, an oath of something unpleasant.

"Your move first."

**.**

**.**

Hogwarts was more beautiful than Harry could have possibly imagined it would be.

Beside him, Draco tried to hide how impressed he was, instead choosing to mutter some comment about his own Manor. Harry ignored him, eyes shining with child-like wonder as he took in the gray stone, the soaring turrets and towers, shingled roofs, ramparts and walkways, rolling green grounds, the sprawl of black forest that blurred with the starry night sky overhead. The castle was nestled in the peaks of a mountain. Its many windows reflected the stars.

From that single look, Harry was immediately smitten.

"Firs' years! Firs' years, this way!"

Harry tugged Draco forward by the sleeve, eagerly following Hagrid's bobbing lamp in the dark. Hagrid had been a family friend for a long time. Harry watched as the man stooped to give Michael a kind greeting, to which the boy-who-lived responded in kind. The half-giant's enormous figure, garishly illuminated by his flickering lantern, added to the atmosphere of nervous excitement.

Harry and Draco clambered into one of the small wooden boats moored in the shallow water of a great lake. Harry claimed the front seat. When all the first years had finally boarded, Hagrid yelled, "Everyone in? Right then—FORWARD!"

The entire fleet moved forward all at once. The lake's surface was like black glass. Harry leaned over slightly, trying to penetrate its bottomless depths, but couldn't. He dipped a hand in it, creating a small wake behind his fingers. The water was cool.

"Don't do that," Draco hissed, grabbing Harry's fingers and jerking them out of the water. His pale face nearly glowed in the weak starry light. "My father said that a giant squid lives in the lake!"  
Harry privately thought this was kind of cool.

Besides Draco's voice, everyone was silent, occupied with staring at the fantastic castle that awaited them. The atmosphere became almost tangible with energy as the castle loomed over their heads, perched on its craggy cliff.

Harry noticed a cleft in the black rock as they neared. A curtain of ivy and lichen hid it nearly entirely. He nudged Draco and pointed it out silently. The blonde boy nodded to show he'd seen.

"Heads down!" Hagrid yelled. The first boats slowly drove right through the natural curtain, disappearing when it swung back into place behind them. The rest followed. Harry extended a hand as they passed through the curtain, trailing his fingers over the rough stone mouth of the cleft. It was cold and very wet. A moment later, his fingers slid over something pleasantly smooth and dry. He squinted, just noticing the tiny shape of some type of water snake coiled up neatly on a slab of rock, its dark scales blending in entirely with the cave's darkness. Its beady eyes seemed to watch him as the boat sailed on, carrying him away.

Draco hadn't noticed the snake. The blonde was leaning forward eagerly as the tunnel suddenly opened wide into an underground chamber. The pebble shore sifted and clacked underneath Harry's boots when he disembarked.

"Oy! You there! Is there yer toad?" Hagrid questioned while he was checking the boats.

"Trevor!" Neville cried in relief, holding the amphibian tightly when Hagrid dropped him into his waiting hands.

After that, there was a rough staircase hewn into the rock that led upwards, out onto a grassy lawn. A set of wide, short stone steps led right up to the entrance of the castle. The wooden door was gigantic and looked entirely solid and hefty.

Harry was finding it hard to breathe.

Hagrid raised a meaty fist and knocked thrice, three booming blows whose echo rolled around the countryside.

The door opened to a severe-looking black-haired witch with a pointed hat and acid green robes. Harry knew her immediately to be Professor McGonagall, a good friend of his mum. The witch sometimes came over for tea and to talk about the subject of Transfiguration with Harry's father.

Somehow, Harry doubted that she would treat him like a familiar friend in the professional atmosphere of the school.

"The Firs' years, Professor," Hagrid presented them proudly. "And none of 'em got lost this time."

"Thank you, Hagrid." Professor McGonagall said courteously as she directed the new students into the massive greeting chamber, well lit by blazing torches. Complete suits of polished armor lining the walls gave the castle a medieval look. Magnificent marble pillars soared high above them, holding up an indiscernible ceiling lost completely in shadow.

Professor McGonagall led them across the flagged stone floor. Light spilled out from underneath a large door to their right, which muffled the tremendous sound of the voices that murmured behind it. Harry assumed this was where the rest of the older student population waited.

They were herded into a much smaller, empty chamber off to the side.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said as they crowded together. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you must be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Four choices. Without a doubt, Harry knew which house Michael would be sorted into. Gryffindor, as expected.

He quietly popped his knuckles nervously. What about him? What house? It was clear that his father expected him to carry on the Potter tradition and become a Gryffindor—but was that truly where he had to go? _Had_ to? The nervousness he had been suppressing for the entire trip bubbled like an angry potion in his stomach. He felt sick.

"The Sorting Ceremony," Professor McGonagall continued, "will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while waiting."

She sent a few pointed looks to a few of the children, including Ron Weasley, who had a rather noticeable smudge of dirt on his nose.

"I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."

And then she left.

Everyone exploded into hushed conversation the moment the woman vacated the room. The main topic of conversation was the sorting. Was there a test? An exam? (At this, a bushy-haired girl with rather large front teeth began preaching loudly about all the spells she knew. Harry blocked her insistent voice as best as he could.)

The students all received a terrible fright when a group of pearly, softly glowing ghosts manifested, as if they had drifted right through the wall. They looked incredibly detailed, like a life-size photograph of each person had been taken in black and white and then dipped in glow-in-the-dark paint. Their legs faded off into shining mist. At their entrance, the room's temperature plunged.

The ghosta squabbled peacefully over someone named Peeves, not even noticing the frightened huddle of students. Harry's sharp eyes immediately singled out a silent, gaunt looking ghost whose clothes seemed to be drenched in silvery liquid that highly resembled bloodstains. The ghost's dead eyes stared right at him.

His anxiousness unexpectedly solidified into something like desperate courage. He stared back unblinkingly.

The ghost curled his upper lip in a sort of pleased smile, and looked away.

"Move along now!"

Harry started as Professor McGonagall's voice punctured the air. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

The ghosts floated through the wall.

"Now, form a line," Professor McGonagall ordered, "and follow me."

They traced their steps back to the double doors in the corridor, which had become hushed. McGonagall opened them with a sweep of her wand.

The Great Hall was stunningly gorgeous.

Hundreds of candles floated weightlessly in midair over four long lacquered wooden tables, where the student population had been seated. The tables' surfaces were nearly hidden by a multitude of shining golden plates and archaic goblets. A set of gleaming cutlery was laid beside each plate.

The ceiling above was bewitched to look like the sky outside, Harry knew from feverishly reading Hogwarts, A History over and over again. It was a funny feeling, looking up and seeing nothing but the night sky outside. He felt small, completely exposed to the elements.

At the far end of the hall, there was another long table, this one turned around so that it faced the rest of the tables. All of the teachers reclined here, including Professor Dumbledore. Harry looked at him bitterly, the festering wound in his heart tearing open again.

He would never forgive the man.

_Never. _

McGonagall led them along, up the tiny flight of stone steps onto the raised dais, so that they faced the rest of the students.

Each face was like a bobbing lantern in the flickering light of the candles overhead. Ghosts had settled amongst the students, their soft glow clashing with the yellow candlelight.

McGonagall dragged a battered, four-legged stool in front of the line. On the stool's worn seat, she placed an equally worn pointed wizard's hat. Its brim was frayed and small patches dotted its surface. Tiny crumbs of dirt tumbled off its fabric when it was set on the chair.

Draco wrinkled his nose. Harry half-smiled.

The hat jolted once and shuddered, as though waking up. A small tear near its floppy brim yawned open. It sang a long, winding song about the four houses which entertained Harry for about a half a minute before his gaze wandered, though his heart was still gasping in his ribcage.

When it finished, the hall exploded briefly into cheers. The hat bowed and became still once more.

Professor McGonagall began to call names. Harry's breath froze in his chest. His thoughts raced frantically. Gryffindor, for his father? Slytherin for Ravolom?

Which? _Which one?_

Sometimes, the Hat shouted out the name of the house chosen for the student who placed the worn thing on their head at once. Other times, it took anywhere from either a few seconds to a couple minutes. A boy named Seamus had taken the longest so far.

"Granger, Hermione!"

The bushy-haired girl from before nearly ran to the hat in eagerness.

"GRYFFINDOR!" The hat yelled. Somewhere down the line, Harry heard Michael and Ron groan.

Draco nearly jumped when his name was called. "Good luck, mate," Harry told him quickly, before he gave him a quick shove forward. Draco waltzed forward, somehow seeming graceful and dignified where everyone else had seemed foolish and young.

_The benefit of pureblood etiquette,_ Harry thought, as he watched the hat sort the blonde into Slytherin, as he knew it would.

Not many people were left. Harry felt horribly vulnerable clustered with the small group of kids left. He saw his brother on his left shoot him a concerned/worried glance.

"Potter, Harry!"

Harry dry swallowed and walked forward, trying his best to rein in his nerves. _It's no big deal, _he told himself sternly. _It's just a hat. Not a magic contest. _(Though he was certain he could beat every one of the first years here, if it was.)

He sat on the stool, wincing at the confused murmurs that shot through the large group of students watching.

"Michael Potter—"

"Who's he, a—"

"—has a brother-?"

"—cousin of the—"

"—Kind of look—"

"—Potters?"

"-alike—"

The familiar sting of anger rippled through him, but the brim of the hat dropped over his eyes a moment later. He couldn't see. His heartbeat roared loudly in his ears.

"Hmmm," said a little voice in his hear. It was definitely masculine, but its age could not be determined. "Difficult. Very difficult… a good amount of courage; and most definitely not a bad mind, not at all… lots of talent, oh, plenty of it, you're quite the catch, aren't you?"

Harry tensed at the feel of something incredibly old and ancient picking through his head. He was reminded of Ravolom, and instantly regretted it, as the hat seemed to freeze.

"Ravolom, eh? Hmm… I remember him, oh yes, I remember him… very bright lad… much like yourself…"

_Please, _Harry thought wildly, _don't tell anyone! Please! He's my secret! No one else can know!_

"I divulge nothing about the students I sort!" said the hat, seeming strangely indignant, as if Harry had affronted him. "User confidentiality, you know! Now, where was I… oh yes, my goodness, what ambition! You have an incredible thirst to prove yourself… to one-up your twin brother, shall we say… You wish to make everyone look at you and not see the _brother of the boy-who-lived, _but _Harry James Potter. _Correct?"

_That would be nice, _Harry agreed, feeling very small again, as though his dream was selfish.

"It's not selfish at all, lad," the hat consoled absently as it continued to rummage through his head. "Everyone feels that way at some point. Ah… where to put you?" The hat sounded delighted. "Oh, I haven't had such a difficult time in _years!"_

_Great, _Harry thought sardonically.

"But I think the question is… where do _you_ want to go?"

_Me?_ Thought Harry, perplexed.

"Yes, you, not _Ravolom_," the hat said his name with a slight chuckle, which did not escape Harry's notice, "not James or Lily Potter, not the rest of the wizarding world… _you_ decide where you want to go."

_But I can't! _Harry thought crossly, so annoyed that he felt light-headed. _And besides, isn't this __**your**__ job? Aren't you supposed to sort me? Isn't this only supposed to take a few seconds or whatever? I mean, honestly, why are you even—_

"Never mind," the hat interjected quickly, "I know where to put you."

Harry had the faintest inkling of what the hat was going to say, but even as he yelled mentally in objection, he felt the hat open its mouth wide and scream,

"_SLYTHERIN!"_

**.**

**.**

**AN: I was SO tempted to end it right before I told you the sorting. SO. TEMPTED. I was literally on the fence about this THE ENTIRE TIME I WAS WRITING THIS CHAPTER. I originally had it narrowed down to Ravenclaw and Slytherin, but I realized 2 things: 1. Harry is ambitious, and clever. Of course Slytherin would fit him. Slytherins are not necessarily evil either, mind you. I want Harry to be the one Slytherin who eventually turns out okay. 2. Ravenclaw, I believe, is for book smarts, and while Harry is indeed book smart in this, he feels to me more like the street smart type. **

**Besides, how could I sever his and Draco's tentative friendship. :3**

**How did the tree in the beginning not catch all the others on fire? Magic, duh. Oh, and **_**Defodio**_** is actually a real spell in the HP books. **


End file.
